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told by Adele de Leeuw 


The :nany islands of Indonesia, stretching lil^ 
chai i of jewels across the Indian Ocean, are full of 
forests, volcanoes, temples, mountains, rivers, rice 
fields, and villages. And there is a story about every- 
thing. In the villages, the storyteller is an important 
person; children and adults crowd around him as he 
tells why the banyan tree is sacred, why there are no 
tigers in Borneo, and how the clever mouse-deer 
outwits much larger creatures. In the evening, when 
the puppet shows are given, the stories are about 
kings and warriors and gods. 

In these twenty-six legends and tales from Java, 
Borneo, Sumatra, and Burma, rajahs and peasants, 
holy hermits and fierce giants, children and mis- 
chievous animals play the leading roles. Some of the 
stories are old, some are new; some are somber, some 
gay, but all reveal a keen understanding of human 
nature. Miss Solbert's drawings have completely 
captured the magical atmosphere of the enchanting 

a!l ages 



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de Leeuv 

Indonesian legends & 
folk tale 





told by Adlle de Leeuw 



Edinburgh NEW YORK Toronto 


Indonesian Legends & Folk Tales 

Barred Road 

A Heart for Business 

Patchwork Quilt 

Rugged Dozen 

The Story of Amelia Earhart 

1961, by Adele de Leeuw 

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Conventions. Pub- 
lished in New York by Thomas Nelson & Sons and simultaneously in Toronto, 
Canada, by Thomas Nelson & Sons (Canada), Limited. 


Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-13829 
Printed in the United States of America 


/^ ./; 


For Tini ? Hera, and Jo 
my Javanese friends 






























Glossary 1 57 


IN THE DAYS of the Hindus, before Mohammedanism had 
come to Java, there lived on the island a king whose name was 
Jamojojo. He was so warlike that he counted his battles by the 
hundreds. He was always in the forefront, armed with a sort 
of poniard which had something of the shape of a kris, but 
which wasn't a kris because that weapon had not yet been 

The king had never been wounded; and his people whis- 
pered that that was because of his weapon, which he always 
carried in his right hand. It had been given to him by a tapa, 
a hermit. 

"Take good care of it," the old hermit had said at the time, 
"for if someone ever takes away your weapon, your power will 
go with it!" 

This was known also to the king of the giants, one of Jamo- 
jojo's greatest enemies. One night when the great warrior 
lay sleeping after a victorious battle, the king of the giants 
with his courtiers and a number of servants suddenly came 
upon him. The weapon which the king still held in his hand 
was taken from him, and he himself was bound and carried 
to one of the underground caverns in the giant's palace. 



Now the king, who had been accustomed to liberty, was 
extremely unhappy. Separated from his beloved wife, he re- 
fused all food and drink which was brought to him, and he 
seldom slept. But on a certain night, as the moon was show- 
ing through the cracks of the dungeon, he fell into a deep 
sleep. And in his slumber there appeared an angel who said 
to him: 

"Jamojojo, they have taken away your weapon which the 
old tapa gave you. But in its place you shall receive another 
weapon, and in a most unusual manner. . . ." 

Just as the king was about to ask, "In what manner?" the 
angel disappeared. Jamojojo thought long over this amazing 
dream, until one night something even stranger occurred. 
This time it was not an angel who appeared to him in his 
dream, but Durga, the beautiful goddess who had once con- 
quered the buffaloes. Durga said to him: 

"Jamojojo, someday you shall have a son who will bring 
you good fortune. Through him you shall acquire a weapon 
that is better and more beautiful and shaped differently from 
the poniard which the king of the giants has taken from you." 

The king wanted to question her, but the goddess suddenly 

Jamojojo did not understand anything of his strange dreams. 
Night and day he pondered over them, wondering about the 
new weapon which he was to receive as soon as a son was 
born to him. Because of all his pondering, and because he did 
not touch the food and drink set before him, Jamojojo grew 
thin and ill. And the king of the giants, who was not so wicked 
after all, promised himself that as soon as he had won a battle 
over one of his enemies he would give Jamojojo his freedom. 
This happened sooner than the king of the giants expected, 
Jamojojo was released from his prison and was permitted to 
return to his queen and his kingdom, a free man but on one 

The Legend of Pasopati 1 1 

condition: as ransom he must send to the giant all the weapons 
in his domain. ''Because/' said the giant, 'you must never 
fight any wars again. There must be peace in your kingdom 
from now on." 

When Jamojojo heard this condition, he bowed his head 
before his conqueror and promised that, as soon as he reached 
his own country, all weapons should be delivered to the king 
of the giants. This promise cost the warrior a mighty struggle, 
but he loved his freedom above all. 

And so it happened that every one of his subjects, from 
the lowliest Javanese to the highest noble, "brought his weapons 
to Jamojojo, and they were delivered by the thousands to the 
palace of the king of the giants. 

The last of his subjects to come before him was an old 
man, the only Mohammedan in Java, who had come from a 
land over the sea. His name was Pasopati. He laid his weapon 
at the king's feet and spoke almost the selfsame words of 
prophecy that Jamojojo had heard several times during his 

"My king," said the old man, "we have all had to deliver 
our weapons to the king of the giants. But fear not, because 
soon thou shalt have another weapon, better, more beautiful, 
and entirely different in shape from all other weapons in 
existence. It is Allah who has so ordained/' 

The king and his courtiers laughed at these words. 'Who 
is this Allah?" asked Jamojojo. "We do not know him/' 

"Perhaps he himself is Allah/' mocked one of the nobles. 
"Perhaps he has still another weapon hidden!' 7 

The king had the same thought. "We will not let ourselves 
be deceived by you!" he cried. "Perhaps you have kept back 
another weapon that you will want to sell us later! Come, 
bring it here, or else" 

But Pasopati shook his head at this accusation. He said 


that he did not possess any other weapon, and that Allah 
was not a person and did not live on the earth, but in the 

No one believed him. People called him a deceiver, and 
he was thrown into one of the underground dungeons of the 

And soon no one thought any more of the poor old man 
in his dark, damp cell until the day a son was born to the 
queen. The little prince, who was a wonderfully sturdy and 
handsome child, brought something very strange into the 
world with him. 

It was a little golden kris which hung at his left side on a 
golden cord. 

While the king, the queen, and all the nobles were lost in 
amazement over this, they suddenly remembered the prophecy 
which the king had heard in his dreams. They remembered, 
too, the last prophecy which had been spoken by Pasopati, 
who at that very moment was imprisoned in the underground 

"Take Pasopati out of prison immediately/ 7 ordered the 
king, "and bring him here." 

But when the grey-haired old man was brought in and 
wanted to bow down before his king, he was so weak that he 
fell to the ground, and his eyes closed. Pasopati felt that Allah 
was calling him, that he was dying. . . . But still he lifted 
his eyelids once more and looked toward the little prince who 
lay beside him on his silken cushion. 

"It is Allah's will," he whispered, his voice growing weaker 
with every word. "He came into the world with the golden 
weapon, the weapon that Allah bestowed on him. But not for 
fighting shall this weapon serve. . . ." And then his dimming 
eyes turned toward the king. "My lord, thou and thy people 

shall make your weapons like this one, and ye shall carry them 
as a sign that someday ye shall submit to Allah's will. Because 
Allah is great and mighty and everlastingly good. Learn to 
know him!" 

Hardly had Pasopati said this, when he closed his eyes for- 

And in his sorrow that he had punished the old man who 
was without guilt, the king called the weapon which his son 
had brought into the world, "Pasopati." 

And that is what the Javanese call the kris to this day, the 
kris which is made, so they say, like the one with which the 
young prince came into the world. 


KEMBANG MELATI, a beautiful young princess, lived with her 
old nurse and many serving-women in a palace on the bank 
of a great river. 

Rajah Banjir, the monarch of the rains, lived in his rainbow- 
colored palace on the other bank of the river. He could cause 
floods to appear at his will, and his tears made brooks and 
rivers swell. From his windows he could see the little princess 
weaving her bridal dress, and he could hear her singing a song 
for luck. But the princess never looked toward his side of the 

The monarch of the rains kept gazing at her with great sad 
eyes. Because he was so sad, he wept many tears, and the river 
swelled and the wind sighed softly through the high trees 
around the palace. The princess heard the sighing of the wind, 
and saw the river rising higher and higher. But she did not 
know that it was her future husband who was weeping and 
calling to her. 

For many days the monarch of the rains yearned for the 
princess. Finally, to be near her, he changed himself into a 
golden butterfly and flew back and forth before her window 

The Golden Butterfly 15 

until at last the princess saw him and opened the window so 
that she could admire his dazzling wings. 
^ Then the golden butterfly lighted on Kembang Melatf s 
little hand, kissed her finger tips, and flew out of the window. 

A few days later the butterfly returned and perched on 
Kembang Melatfs right ear and whispered to her, "Weave 
your bridal dress quickly, princess, for soon your bridegroom 
will come." 

The princess heard only the word "bridegroom." She asked, 
'Where is my bridegroom?" The butterfly did not answer 
her, for he had flown out of the window. 

But someone else had heard her question. That was Nasi- 
man, the wicked son of the princess's old nurse. He went to 
his mother at once. "Mother," he said, "I was standing out- 
side the princess's window and I heard her ask, 'Where is my 
bridegroom?' I want you to go to her and tell her that I am 
her bridegroom." 

'That you can never be, son/' the old woman said, "be- 
cause you are not of noble birth." 

"Nevertheless, I wish to marry the princess," he answered. 
"Go to her, Mother, and tell her that her bridegroom has 
come/ 7 

Nasiman was wicked and cruel, and his mother was afraid 
of him. So she went to the princess and told her of the bride- 
groom who had come to claim her hand. Just then the golden 
butterfly flew back and whispered in the princess's ear, "The 
real bridegroom has not yet come, princess. The one who is 
now under your roof is a wicked man. His name is Nasiman, 
and he is the son of your old nurse, Sarinah. Do not many 
him. . . . Wait till the true bridegroom comes!" 

When the golden butterfly had flown away, the princess 
said, "I will wait, nurse, till the true bridegroom comes/' 


"This is the true bridegroom/' the nurse insisted. She 
clasped her hands and begged, "Oh, princess, dear princess, 
marry him at once, for if you do not, we shall both die! 7 ' 

The princess did not want to die. So finally she said to 
her nurse, "Tell the bridegroom who has come that I must 
have seven days to think it over. Tell him to wait on the bank 
of the river and I will send him my answer there/' 

Nasiman found this idea good, and agreed. He took a big 
basket, filled it with food to last him seven days, and had it 
carried to a spot on the bank of the river. 

On that same day the monarch of the rains called to him 
a white crow, one of his best and biggest messenger-birds, and 
gave her a little chest full of costly ornaments and a letter. 
"Take these immediately to the Princess Kembang Melati," 
he ordered, "and make sure that you don't lose anything." 

"Don't worry, master," the crow replied. "I myself will take 
everything to the princess." 

The white crow flew off with the little chest bound fast to 
her back and the letter between 'her claws, and winged her 
way to the opposite bank of the river. There she saw Nasiman 
eating the last of a delicious-looking fish. The white crow, 
who loved fish, flew over swiftly, and cried, "Oh, how good 
that looks! May I have a little bite?" 

"How do you dare ask me that?" Nasiman demanded 
crossly. "Who are you, and where do you come from, with a 
letter in your claws and a chest on your back?" 

"Well," the crow answered smugly, "I happen to be the 
messenger of the great magician, the monarch of the rains! 
And I am to take this letter and this little chest to the Princess 
Kembang Melati, as my master ordered. What's more, I am 
to give them to her myself." 

"Hmm/' Nasiman said with a false little laugh. "In that 

case, Til let you eat some of my fish. Put down your letter 
and take the chest from your back, and fall to!" 

The white crow didn't have to be invited twice. She laid 
the letter and the little chest in the grass, and began to eat 
greedily of the delicious bit of fish. 

Nasiman lost no time. He opened the chest, took out the 
beautiful golden ornaments and in their place put some "big 
spiders and some gruesome-looking scorpions. Then he hur- 
ried to his mother with the letter. "Mother/ 7 he said, "I can't 
read, but I imagine that this letter must be full of lovely 
words. Now I want you to change them, at once, into ugly 
words. Meanwhile I'll hide these ornaments." 

The white crow was so busy eating that she did not notice 
what was going on. She ate the fish, down to the last scrap. 
Then she went to get a drink at the spring. The spring mur- 
mured to her, "Ah, white crow, why didn't you take the letter 


and the little chest to the princess as Rajah Banjir said?" 

But the white crow didn't hear. She didn't hear the wind, 
either, sighing to her, "Ah, white crow, something dreadful 
will happen because of your greediness!" 

And something dreadful did happen. When the princess 
saw the white crow come, bearing the letter and the little 
chest, she believed that the bird came from her true bride- 
groom, and in great excitement she decided to read the letter 
first. As her eyes flew over the words, she could hardly believe 
what she read: "You are very ugly," the letter said, "and 
what is in the little chest is foul and old. That goes, too, for 
your green hair and your blue skin." 

She was so angry that she tore the letter into shreds and 
tossed the little chest, without opening it, through the window. 
The spiders and the scorpions swarmed over the garden to 
the great astonishment of the white crow who could not 
understand how her master could have sent such horrible 
things to the lovely princess. 

But Nasiinan laughed to himself. Now the princess would 
marry him, he thought 

But the princess had no thought of marrying anyone now. 
She was bitterly grieved by the ugly letter. Weeping, she 
paced back and forth in her chamber. No one could comfort 
her, and she cried, "Take away my weaving stool! I will never 
weave again on my bridal gown!" 

Toward evening of that sad day the golden butterfly came 
back and flew through the open window. He lit on the prin- 
cess's ear. "Darling princess," he whispered, "why don't you 
wear the beautiful ornaments that your bridegroom sent 

At that the princess hit at him with an angiy hand. 

The great monarch of the rains thought surely she was only 

The Golden Butterfly 19 

teasing him. He whispered in her ear again: "Beloved little 
princess, would you like to see your bridegroom tomorrow 
morning? He will take you to his rainbow-colored palace 
where the golden rays of the sun are magnified a thousand 
times into the most wonderful colors, and where you shall 
see woven cloth so fine, so dazzling, that it is like moonbeams! 
Come, darling princess, finish weaving your bridal gown, for 
tomorrow your bridegroom comes!" 

The princess grew even angrier. She called her serving- 
women to her and bade them chase the golden butterfly away 
and never again to let it come inside. 

When the great magician heard the princess say these words 
he became so angry that he caused a mighty flood to come 
over the land that very night. Everything that was not sub- 
merged drifted away, torn loose from the land. The palace 
with Princess Kembang Melati and her nurse and the wicked 
Nasiman and all the others who lived in it, drifted on the 

The palace drifted farther and farther, until it came near the 
other bank where the palace of the great monarch of the rains 
stood. The king was in his doorway, watching, but when he 
saw the princess's palace floating toward him he pretended 
not to see it. The princess cried piteously for help, but he 
pretended not to hear. 

They were drifting out of sight when the nurse cried out 
in despair, "It's my fault! I bear the blame! It was I who 
changed the beautiful words of the letter into ugly ones! And 
my son, Nasiman, filled the little chest with spiders and scor- 
pions while the white crow was eating the fish 1 /' 

When he heard the nurse's confession, the monarch of the 
rains understood everything. He leaped down and dragged 
the princess and all the others out of the drifting palace and 


brought them into his own. Only her old nurse and the nurse's 
wicked son were not permitted to enter, 

"May great waves engulf you!" he thundered. And at his 
words mighty waves, as high as the heavens, rose in the water 
and swallowed up the nurse and her son. 

The white crow was punished, too, for her greediness. She 
was changed into a black bird which could never speak again. 
All she could say was, "Kaw . . . kaw . . . kaw . . . kr - 
kr. . . ." It meant "gold . . . gold/' But though the crow 
searched, she never could find the gold and jewels with which 
the little chest had been filled. 

When the evildoers were punished, the monarch of the rains 
caused the flood to subside. In a short time, the whole world 
was dry once more, and when he had accomplished that he 
turned to the princess and told her that he was the son of a 
nobleman and that for days and nights he had yearned for her. 

Kembang Melati took pity on him. She knew that he was 
truly her bridegroom from the way he spoke to her. So she 
married him and lived the rest of her happy life with him 
in the rainbow-colored palace on the bank of the river. 

But, strange to tell, no mortal has ever found the spot where 
that palace stood. 


TISNA WATI lived with her father, Batara Guru, in the god's 
heaven. Now Tisna Wati was a most beautiful and charming 
little goddess, but she wasn't at all happy in the gods 7 heaven. 
Sometimes, when she looked down at the earth, far below her, 
and saw people busy at their various tasks, she would sigh, 
"Oh, if only I could be an ordinary mortal!" - 

And when her father had gone forth to do battle with the 
giants and the demons of the air, she would mourn because 
she could not go with him. When he came back, she would be 
pouting and out of humor. 

One day, when she was especially surly, her father lost his 
temper. "Come here!" he ordered in a stem voice. "Your 
grumbling and your silly whims annoy me, and nothing would 
please me better than to send you down to earth to become an 
ordinary mortal. Alas, I cannot do that because you have 
drunk of the life-water and are immortal. But I have thought 
of something else for you. Til choose one of the young gods to 
be your husband, and he will soon teach you to get over your 

bad moods!" 




"Oh, I already know of someone who could be my hus- 
band, Father/' the little goddess cried happily. 

"Who can that be?" her father demanded. "Not one of 
those awful air giants, I hope. Because I absolutely forbid you 
to marry the son of one of my enemies." 

"Oh, no, Father, it's not one of the buatas. And he doesn't 
live in the air, nor in the gods 7 heaven, either. He lives on the 
earth. Look down . . . you can see him now. He's that hand- 
some young man who is plowing the rice field that lies on 
the side of the hill." 

"But that's the son of a man!" her father said angrily. "He's 
an ordinary mortal! You can't marry him; you are the daughter 
of a god! You shall never marry him. I won't permit it!" 

"But I will marry him!" Tisna Wati shrieked, stamping her 
tiny foot. "I will never marry anyone else. He shall be my hus- 
bandeven if I have to leave this place forever." 

"And I say that you shall never marry him!" her father 
stormed. "I'd rather change you into a rice stalk. And let 
me tell you that just as soon as possible I will choose a son 
of one of the gods to be your husband. Do you understand?" 

When Tisna Wati saw how angry her father was, she was 
afraid that her fate would be the same as that of Dewi Sri, the 
lovely wife of the great god Vishnu, who disobeyed her hus- 
band and was killed by him and changed into a rice stalk. It 
was her deathless spirit that lived in the fields of rice, the 

But Tisna Wati was not as meek as Dewi Sri. She would 
never let herself be changed into a rice stalk. And certainly 
she would never, never marry a son of one of the gods! She 
had set her heart on the handsome young mortal, plowing his 
fields on the hillside. 

Egrly the next day her father left to seek a husband for 

her. But just as he was setting out, word came to him that the 
giants of the air and the evil demons were threatening the 
gods again, and he would have to go to war against them. 
"When I come back, however, 111 bring your husband with 
me," he said to his daughter. 

Tisna Wati said meekly, 'Very well, Father." But as soon 
as he had left, she leaped on the wings of the wind and was 
floated down to earth. The wind was kind to her and took her 
close to the hillside where the young man was plowing his 
rice field. 

Tisna Wati said to herself, "Now I can really see him 
close/' And she sat down on the slope of the hill to wait for 
the young man to notice her. 

When he turned at the end of a row, he saw her. And he 


thought she was as beautiful as a vision. He came to her and 
said, wonderingly, ''What are you looking for, lovely maiden? 7 ' 

"I'm looking for my husband/ 7 Tisna Wati answered, 

It was such a strange answer that the young man began to 
laugh, too, and they laughed together. They laughed because 
they were happy and in love, and the sound of their laughter 
rose to the heavens. That was their undoing. 

For when their voices reached the place where Tisna Wati's 
father was battling against the giants and the demons, he 
heard it. He stopped and listened. That was his daughter's 
voice! And the voice of a strange young man! He bent and 
looked toward the earth . . . and there he saw his daughter, 
sitting beside a handsome young man, and their joyous 
laughter was louder to him than the noise of battle. 

Raving with anger, Batara Guru gave up the battle with 
his enemies and flew down to earth. When he came to the 
hillside where his daughter sat beside the young man, he 
thundered, "Come with me at once! I'm taking you back to 
the gods' heaven." 

But Tisna Wati had no desire to return to the gods' heaven. 
She was in love with the young man, and her love was stronger 
than her father's will. 

"No," she said firmly, "I am never going back. I'd rather 
become an ordinary mortal and stay here on earth with my 

"Then stay you shall!" her father roared angrily. "But not 
as the daughter of a god, and not as a mortal, either! You 
shall become a rice stalk and your spirit shall become one 
with this rice field." Even as he spoke, Tisna Wati changed 
from a goddess into a slim rice stalk. 

When the slender rice stalk bent toward the young man, he 

The Soul in the Mountain Rice 25 

stroked it with loving fingers. His plowing was forgotten, 
everything was forgotten, and in his sorrow he could only 
gaze at the graceful stalk that had been his beloved Tisna 

When Batara Guru saw this, he was overcome with re- 
morse. "I could have left them together," he said. "Now I 
cannot change her back . . . she must remain a rice stalk 
forever, for her spirit is already here in this rice field. But 
perhaps I could change him into a rice stalk, too/' 

When he had done this, he saw how the two stalks bent 
toward each other, as if they were telling how much they loved 
one another. He watched them a while, and shook his great 
head. "It is well/' he muttered to himself, and flew back to 
the gods' heaven. 

And ever since that day, the story says, the spirit of Tisna 
Wati has been in the mountain rice, just as the spirit of Dewi 
Sri is in the sawah rice. 

But where the spirit of the handsome young man went, 
no one knows. 


EVERY YEAR the Hindus who live in the Tengger mountains 
of Java celebrate the Bromo Feast, and this legend tells how 
it began. 

Kyai Kesunia and Nyai Kesuma were Hindus. They had a 
little house in the neighborhood of the great Sand Sea and 
lived there in happiness and contentment. But there was one 
thing missing in their lives: they had no child. And because 
they were both old, they could not hope to have a son a son 
for "whom they had prayed to Brahma so many years. 

On a certain evening, shortly before midnight, they heard a 
gentle knock at the door of their little house. Kyai got up and 
opened the door, and there stood an old and poorly clothed 
man who said, "Please give me just a handful of rice and let 
me sleep this night under your roof! For I have come a long, 
long way, and I am tired and hungry/' 

Kyai called his wife, and both of them asked the old man 
in. They brought him a new sleeping mat, and Kyai said, x 
''Rest here and be our guest as long as you like/' And Nyai 
brought coffee and rice cakes, and said in a friendly voice, 


"Eat of these rice cakes and drink of this coffee until you are 
satisfied. And then lie down and sleep after your long jour- 

The old man ate of the rice cakes and drank of the coffee, 
and then he lay down on the mat and fell asleep. But when 
Kyai and Nyai Kesuma woke up next morning and looked at 
the place where they had left the old man, they saw him, 
surrounded by a strange light, standing on the sleeping mat. 
Now he was no longer old and bent, but as handsome and 
straight as one of the gods. He told the old couple that he 
had been sent to them by Brahma. 

"Brahma has heard your prayers/' he said, "and a son shall 
be bom to you. When this son is full-grown, I shall come back 
to tell you what Brahma's will is, and I am sure that you, who 


are so devout and so brave, will do whatever Brahma demands 
of you." 

Kyai and Nyai bowed their grey heads to the earth, as a 
sign that they would do Brahma's will without a murmur. And 
when they looked up again, Brahma's messenger had dis- 

It was just a year after this miraculous visit that a son was 
born to them. The boy was very handsome, and the older 
he grew the more handsome he became. As the years went by, 
he grew into a strong young man, and he was so brave and 
tireless and so good to his elders that Kyai and Nyai called 
their son the support and pride of their old age. 

One night, when the boy had reached young manhood, 
there came again a gentle knock at the door, and once more 
the messenger of Brahma stood before the old couple. The 
face of the demigod was somber, and he spoke in a soft, grieved 

"Brave people, tomorrow night is the new moon. Then you 
and your son must climb the mountain Bromo, up to the very 
edge of the crater. For on that night Brahma will demand 
your son. You must offer to your god, whatever he demands 
of you without complaint. " 

"Brahma's will be done," said the old couple, bowing to 
the earth. 

Without murmuring, without complaining, the two old 
people started the next night, with their son, for the mountain 
Bromo. It was a long way to the place where Brahma was to 
demand their sacrifice. When they had reached the rim of 
the crater they knelt on the ground and prayed, "Mighty 
Brahma, here is our son, the great sacrifice that you have 
demanded of us. See, here is our child, the support and 
consolation of our old age. Take him to you. But let us go with 

The Origin of the Bromo Feast 29 

him. Let us die with him. Because, Great Father, we are both 
so old and so tired. And what will become of us if you talce 
our son away? Who will herd our goats? Who will fetch the 
water from the brook, and plant the grain, if our son is not here 
to do it for us?" 

With their heads bowed to the earth, and with their son 
between them, they waited to hear what Brahma would say. 

And suddenly they heard Brahma's godlike voice speaking 
to them. "Kyai and Nyai Kesuma, I will not demand your 
son as a sacrifice. He will be the support of both of you so 
long as you live. I only wanted to find out if you were willing 
to follow me, your god. You have given me that proof; you 
have honored my will. Go back to your home, and live there 
happily with your son!" 

"We thank you, mighty Brahma, we thank you for your 
unending goodness/' the old people cried with gladness. "We 
will always think of you with deep love. And we will always 
remember this day by offering you the finest things that our 
fields and our herds have to give." 

With their son, they hurried back to their little house. 
There they took the fattest goat out of the herd, and the 
fairest ears of grain from the field, and they sent their son 
back to Bromo with these gifts. 

After he had killed the goat on the rim of the crater, the 
son threw the costly meat and the ears of grain into the crater 
and said, "Mighty Brahma, we bring you our offering, the best 
that we possess, in thanks for your goodness to us. May this 
be acceptable to you! And every year we will bring you such 
an offering again/' 

And from that time on, on this selfsame day, the Hindus 
who live in the Tengger mountains have brought their offer' 
ings to Brahma, to celebrate the Bromo Feast in his honor. 


A STARVING BOY went wearily from village to village. His name 
was Dongso and he had been dismissed by a rich widow for 
whom he had worked, because the harvest had been so poor. 
The widow was known throughout the land as the owner of 
the most fruitful acres, but after Dongso had come the harvest 
had been so meager that he alone ate more rice than the 
fields produced. It happened not once, but twice. The widow 
herself had seen how well Dongso had prepared the sawah 
and tended the young rice shoots, but when they had grown 
tall and ready to be harvested, the stalks were empty of ker- 
nels and hung limp in the sun. 

After the second harvest, the village people began to whisper 
that the young man might be a bad spirit. Perhaps he had 
been sent to earth by Allah to punish the widow because 
she was so stingy and made such meager offerings to the vil- 
lage-spirit and the sawah-spirit. 

The widow, of course, heard these whisperings, and in 
anger she dismissed Dongso, without paying him. 

Weak with hunger Dongso came one evening to the out- 
skirts of a village and knocked at the door of the first house 
he saw. It was a little hut in the midst of a small sawah owned 


The Little Sawah 31 

by a poor old woman, Randa Derma. When Dongso knocked, 
she opened the door to him and he fell across the threshold. 

"Please," he said feebly, "give me a handful of rice. I am 

"Why do you have to beg?" she asked him. "You look strong 
and you are young. Why don't you earn your rice? Why don't 
you work for your food?'* 

But she was a goodhearted woman and she pulled her 
unexpected guest into the room without waiting for his an- 
swer. She set rice and coffee in front of him. "Eat and drink, 
my son/' she said. "And then tell me why you beg rather than 

The boy began to eat without a word, trying to make up 
for the many days he had gone hungry. When at last he was 
satisfied, he told the old woman his story. "I did my best/' he 
said. "I worked hard all the time I took care of the widow's 
sawahs. And truly I could not help it, it was not my fault, 
that the ears were almost always empty. I think," he said 
slowly, "it was because she did not make offerings to the pro- 
tecting spirits and they were punishing her. And how could I 
force them to make the ears full of grain?" 

"No, of course you couldn't/' the old woman agreed. "But 
if you will stay with me and work my little sawah, I will give 
you one fifth of the harvest yield. The trouble is, I have no 
buffalo. But the field isn't very big. . . ." 

"It won't matter/' Dongso said. His eyes shone with grati- 
tude for her offer. "I'll do my best for you." 

Early the next morning, he started for the sawah, with only 
a spade. He turned the earth as if he had a fine plow and a 
strong buffalo working for him. When the time came for the 
sowing he did that, too, with speed and skill. Now he must 
wait with patience for the ripening. Then he would be able 


to harvest full, fine ears of rice! It was almost as if his wishes 
were coming true, for the rice stalks grew tall and straight, and 
the ears turned a beautiful golden yellow. 

But then the worst happened, the same thing that had 
happened when he was working in the fields of the rich widow. 
The fine-looking stalks carried only empty ears, with not a 
grain of rice in them! He asked himself, in despair, "Can it 
be that this woman, too, has made no offering to the spirits? 
Or can it be that I am the one who brings bad luck to people?" 

He couldn't bear to tell the old woman what was troubling 
him. She would find out for herself soon enough, when she 
went into the field for the harvest. 

As the day drew near Dongso grew sadder and sadder. The 
night before the harvest he couldn't sleep a wink. He lay on 
his mat, tossing from side to side, thinking of the empty ears 
of rice in the field and how unhappy the old woman would be. 
The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he could 
not face her disappointment when she opened the ears of 
rice that had been cut. Very early, long before sunup, he 
would leave the village; he would steal away as he had come, 
and beg from door to door till he found work again. 

As quietly as a mouse he crept out of the hut next morning 
and started for the road. But before he left the village for 
good, he had to look once more at the little sawah where he 
had labored so long and faithfully. Walking sadly between 
the tall stalks, he looked again at the golden-yellow, empty 
ears. Idly he plucked one off and opened it. As he had thought, 
there were no rice grains in it. 

Then his mouth fell open and he looked again, hardly be- 
lieving what he saw. There were no grains of rice, but there 
were grains of gold, pure, glittering gold! He was dazed with 
astonishment. This couldn't be. Maybe in one ear, but surely 

not Dongso picked another one, and still another one, and 
yet another one, and each ear was filled with kernels of 

He ran back to the little hut, and found the old woman 
busy with her weaving. She looked up at him in astonish- 
ment. "Why are you so happy, Dongso?" 

Dongso almost told her. But he wanted her to see the amaz- 
ing sight herself. He wanted her to find the kernels of gold 
as he had found them. So he said, "Because today we are 
going to give a wonderful harvest feast, Randa Derma!" 

The old woman's wrinkled face puckered sadly when 
he said that "No, Dongso/'. she said with a sigh, "I'm sorry, 
but we can't do that. We can only make a simple meal. I 
spent the last of my money on offerings to the spirits of the 
village and of the sawah so that they might bless the har- 
vest. . . ." 


"And so they have!" he shouted. "Wait till you see how 
they have blessed the harvest!" He took her by the hand and 
led her to the sawah. The old woman stumbled in her haste 
to follow his quick steps as he hurried her to the place where 
he had made the amazing discovery. 

Dongso tore off a stalk and gave it to her. "Look inside, 
Little Mother/' he urged, and he watched as she opened the 
ear and found the golden kernels. He laughed when she 
shrieked with joy. "What did I tell you? What did I tell you?" 

But the old woman pulled herself together quickly. "Now 
Allah be praised/' she said, bowing her head. "My little rice 
field has brought forth more than a hundred great sawahs 
could bring forth. Allah be praised!" 

She had promised Dongso a fifth of the harvest and she 
gave him a fifth of the harvest. Now he was rich. He could 
buy himself a sawah, he could buy buffaloes, as many as he 
needed, as many as he wanted. But Dongso bought neither a 
rice field nor buffaloes. He was faithful to the old woman who 
had befriended him, and he took care of the many spreading 
sawahs she bought with the same zeal that he had taken care 
of her tiny sawah. And he did to others who came to help 
him as she had done to him he gave them one fifth of the 
crop of the lush acres. 

It has been so from that day to this: One fifth of each 
sawah's harvest is divided among the helpers. From that day 
to this, too, there has never been want or poverty in that dis- 
trict. The people of Derma have lived in peace and plenty all 
these years. 

That's what the village was namedDerma, after the old 
woman who had befriended Dongso and who had been so 
poor that she could not even offer a harvest feast. But the 

The Little Scwah 35 

Javanese do not believe the village's well-being came from the 
fruitfulness of the countryside. They believe the good fortune 
of the village and its people is due to the lovely temple Dongso 
built to the memory of his benefactor, after she died, on the 
very spot where once the little sawah had been. 


ONE DAY a man was walking through a dense forest. In one 
hand he carried a kris, and in the other a long lance, in case 
he met any tigers and snakes along the way. 

He had reached the edge of the forest and was congratulat- 
ing himself that he had not had to use either his kris or his 
lance, when all at once he heard, just above his head, a most 
frightful noise. He looked up into the branches from where 
it seemed to come, and he saw an enormous snake that had 
caught its tail in a split of one branch. 

The snake was doing everything it could to free its tail. 
Suddenly it saw the man and called out to him, "Oh, help 
me, help me! Make the split in the branch a little wider with 
your lance, so that I can get my tail out and be on my way/' 

"Til gladly do that/' said the man, "if you'll first promise 
me that you will do me no harm after I have freed you/' 

"Well now, why should I do you harm?" asked the snake. 
"You have nothing to fear from me/* 

So the man made the split in the branch a little wider with 
his lance and the snake pulled its tail out, 

"Reach your lance up to me/ 7 the snake said then, "so that 
I can crawl along it down to the ground/ 7 


This the man did. The snake curled itself around the lance 
but, instead of creeping along it to the ground, it stopped at 
the man's shoulder and twined itself fast around his neck. 

"Ho, what are you doing?" the man cried out in terror. 
"Why are you twining yourself around my neck? Why don't 
you crawl down to the ground?" 

"Because I want to slay you/' hissed the snake. 

"But you promised that you would do me no harm/ 7 the 
man said. 

"Well, so I did," the snake replied "But when I promised 
that, I was still in the tree. Now, I am on earth, and on earth 
good is always repaid with evil." 

The man thought frantically of a way to escape. "Very 
well/' he said, "you may kill me. But first I want to hear the 
opinion of three others, whom we may meet here in the 
woods, as to the truth of what you say." 


"Good; 7 said the snake. "Let us go." 

The first thing they came to was a palm tree. "Ask the 
palm tree/* ordered the snake. 

"Palm tree," the man explained, "just a little while ago I 
saved the life of this snake, and now it wants to kill me be- 
cause, it says, here on earth good is always rewarded with evil. 
Is that true?" 

"Certainly it is true," the palm tree said. "Look at me. 
With my waving fronds I refresh the wanderers who creep to 
me, tired and worn out; I let them sleep in my shade. And 
after they are refreshed, they hack me into little pieces with 
their sharp axes and throw me into the fire." 

"Do you hear what the palm tree says?" asked the snake, 
twisting itself still tighter about the man's throat. 

They went a little farther, until they came to a brook. The 
man told the brook how he had saved the life of the snake 
and how it wanted to kill him because on earth good is always 
repaid with evil. 

"The snake is right," chattered the brook. "Just look at 
me. With my water, I revive all who come to me tired and 
thirsty. And after they have quenched their thirst, they repay 
me by throwing into my crystal-clear water all kinds of un- 
clean things. You will have to let yourself be throttled by the 
snake, because here on earth good is always rewarded with 

And to the snake, "Go ahead, snake, and throttle the man 
who saved your life!" 

The snake twined itself still tighter around the man's neck, 
until he almost suffocated. Gasping for breath, he cried, "Don't 
kill me yet, O snake! Ask a third opinion. Then you may 
kill me." 

The Clever Squirrel 39 

"Very well/' said the snake, looking at a little squirrel that 
sat on one of the branches of a tree. 

The man also saw the squirrel. "Let us ask him what he 
thinks/' he said to the snake. 

"Ask him, then/' the snake said, "because I'm in a hurry 
to throttle you before I take the squirrel as my prey." 

"Little squirrel/' the man said, "I saved the life of this 
snake, and now it wants to kill me because, as it says, here 
on earth good is always rewarded with evil. Is that true?" 

The squirrel looked first at the snake and then at the man. 
"Well, that is very difficult to decide. I ought to see first how 
the whole thing happened. For I really don't know just how 
you saved the life of the snake. You must show me that first. 
Only then can I give you my decision." 

"I'll certainly let you see how it went/' said the snake. 

They all returned to the tree where the man had first seen 
the snake, and while it crept up the trunk toward the split 
branch the man took his lance and struck the snake dead! 


HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS of years ago in Sumatra a little vil- 
lage lay on the bank of a swift-flowing river. On the other side 
of the river was a dense forest, and in the center of this forest 
lived a tapa or hermit. He was an old man; for many years 
his home had been a rocky cave hidden under palm leaves. 
He had lived on the fruits of the trees and the nearby fields, 
and was friendly with all the animals in the woods, even with 
the tigers. 

But it came to pass that there was a bad drought. The fruits 
withered on the trees and shrank to dry husks in the fields. 
The hermit could find nothing to eat, and he couldn't pos- 
sibly kill any of his animal friends. So, at last, he made him- 
self a small boat out of a tree trunk, rowed across the river, 
and asked the people of the little village to give him a hand- 
ful of rice to still his hunger. 

They gave him half a coconut-shell full of rice and he 
thanked them. "Someday I hope to return this rice to you 
twofold/' he said. 

The man who had handed it to him laughed. "Never mind/' 
he said. "That won't be necessary." 

But when the old hermit came again to ask for a handful 


of rice, and when he came still another day for another hand- 
ful of rice, the villagers began to be annoyed. "We can't give 
you any more/' they said. "We don't have too much to eat 
ourselves." And the man who had given him the first half 
a coconut-shell of rice, said crossly, "Why don't you get a rice 
field for yourself, and then return some of the rice you've 

The old hermit turned and left them, still hungry. He sat 
down on the edge of the river and thought of what the man 
had said to him. 

As he sat there a little boat drew alongside. "Why do you 
look so pained, old man?" the helmsman leaned out to ask. 

"I haven't eaten anything since yesterday," the hermit an- 
swered. "And the people of the village, who have been feed- 
ing me for a while, have told me they will not give me any 
more rice." He sighed. "They say that I must begin my own 
paddy. But how shall I find a suitable place in the forest to 
plant? And who will give me the young rice stalks to set out? 
I don't have even a single rice grain." 

"That I can give you," the helmsman said. He took up a 
little bag that lay beside him on the deck. "Cut down some 


trees near your hut, and make a paddy in the clearing. If you 
work hard and take good care of the plants, these grains should 
bring you luck/' 

Without another word, the man sprang into his boat and 
sailed on. The hermit stared at the rice kernels so mysteriously 
given to him. He tied them in a palm leaf, tucked the leaf 
in his belt, and rowed back to the other shore. That very day 
he began to cut down trees, although his hunger made him 
weak. He started with the trees close to his hut, and kept on 
chopping until nightfall. Each day, he cut down a few more 
trees, until finally there was an open space big enough to culti- 
vate as a rice field. All this time he lived on herbs and leaves 
from the trees. 

The fallen trees dried quickly in the hot sun, and when the 
first rains fell the hermit could start sowing in the loose earth. 
The young plants, set in neat rows, grew rapidly; the stalks 
reached upward, the ears formed and turned yellow, and 
sooner than usual the grain was ready to cut. 

And now the hermit found, to his amazement, that no 
matter how much rice he cut in the paddy, it immediately 
grew again, and there was still the same amount to cut. He 
was never done. 

Delighted that he could give back all the rice he had bor- 
rowed, and more too, he got into his little boat and rowed 
over to the village. He begged the people to come and see his 
marvelous sawah for themselves. Everyone, he said, should 
bring a big basket and feel free to fill it with the wonderful 

Nobody believed him when he said that no matter how 
much he cut, new rice grew in its place. Still, they all went 
across the river, most of them in hollowed-out logs, some 
swimming, some in little boats; but all of them went. How- 

An Old Sumatran Legend 43 

ever, nobody took a basket because nobody thought the hermit 
was telling the truth. 

The villagers followed him to the paddy. The hermit took 
his knife and cut the fine rice stalks, and instantly, in their 
place, new ones sprang up, just as full of ripe grains. He did 
this over and over, moving down the neat rows, almost lost 
under the towering, waving stalks. Now that they had seen 
the miracle with their own eyes, the people hurried back to 
their village to hunt the biggest containers they could find. 
They snatched up huge baskets woven of bamboo, and enor- 
mous water vessels, and any likely looking thing, so that they 
could bring back as much rice as possible. One man even 
brought a huge shed, woven of fibers, because he couldn't find 
a basket that he thought was big enough. 

"What are you doing with that shed?" the old hermit 
asked in astonishment. 

"I'm going to fill it with rice, of course," the greedy man 
replied, and he began to scoop up what the hermit cut. 

By the time the shed was filled to the top, no one could 
possibly move it down to the river's edge. That made the 
greedy man despair, and the hermit felt sorry for him. So he 
wove him a stout basket of wood fibers to hold the rice. 
"Leave the shed here/ 7 he said, "as an offering to the gods." 

Every day the village people crossed the swift river in their 
little boats, walked to the paddy, and filled their baskets and 
vessels to overflowing with the rice that the old hermit cut for 
them. Finally the tapa grew weary. His back hurt and his arm 
was tired. He threw down his knife and cried, "Oh, stop grow- 
ing, you wretched rice!" 

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the beau- 
tiful ripe ears of grain withered and sank into the earth; in 
their place, in the flash of an eye, sprang up the long, sharp 


blades of the alang-alang grass. It shot up foot by foot as he 
watched, and soon the paddy was changed into a wilderness. 

Just as this happened, the villagers returned once more 
with their baskets and jars and vessels. When they saw how 
the paddy had been transformed, they rushed madly to the 
shed whose roof they could just glimpse above the tall blades 
of alang-alang. They fought their way to the shed, because 
they knew it was filled to the brim with rice as an offering to 
the gods. 

But when they reached it, their cries filled the air. For the 
big shed and all it contained was now only a towering rock! 


THE POWERFUL GIANT who had ruled over Smeru, Indra's holy 
mountain, ever since the world began had a beautiful daughter 
wham he loved more than all his other possessions. He loved 
her so much that he watched over her day and night, and kept 
her hidden from all eyes. But one morning, when he went to 
make the rounds of his underground realm, as was his custom, 
his little daughter had a sudden desire to go and see just 
once how the world outside her father's kingdom looked. 
And so she left the mountain and went up on the earth. 

At first the strong daylight blinded her eyes so that she 
could not see; but as she grew accustomed to it she gazed 
around her and she was enchanted with all she saw. She 
walked on and on, with her light, quick steps. It was almost 
as if she floated over the beautiful rice fields, and over the 
lovely meadows where the goats grazed. When she came to a 
field of grain she suddenly saw a man standing in front of 
her. He looked somewhat like her father, but he was younger 
and handsomer than the old mountain giant. And the young 
man said to her in a soft and friendly voice, "Who are you?" 

The young girl had never heard any voice except the loud, 
rumbling one of her father, and she was so charmed with the 



way the young giant said these few simple words that she 
told him she was Dewi Jurangga, the beloved only child of 
the mighty giant of the Smeru. She told him, too, that she 
had left her father's realm for the first time, and that every- 
thing she had seen this morning seemed so lovely that she 
would like to dwell on earth forever, even if she had to give 
up the immortality of the gods which would have been hers. 
"Are you one of the gods, or are you a giant?" she asked. 

"I am a giant's son," the young man said, "and I am the 
raksasa or guardian of the great temple of the gods. Brahma 
himself appointed me. My father is also a great and powerful 
giant; he is almost as mighty as your father. His name is 
Bromo." The raksasa went on to tell her that he was on his 
way to search for a wife. The gods had told him that he would 
find a beautiful young girl near one of the mountains. "And 
now I have found her!" he cried happily. 

But Dewi Jurangga looked at him sadly and shook her head. 
"I can never be your wife," she said. "You see, my father loves 
me above everything else. He guards me as the light of his 
eyes; and he will never, never consent that I be the wife of a 
raksasa, and certainly not of one who is a son of Bromo." 

The raksasa looked at her in astonishment. "Why not?" 
he asked. 

"Because," the young girl answered simply, "y ur father, 
Bromo, has sent devastating fires and streams of boiling lava 
from his mountain to flow over the fertile fields that border 
on our mountain. In one night he changed them to an arid 
plain. And that is why my father is an enemy of Bromo." 

"Nevertheless, I am going to speak to your father," the rak- 
sasa said. And that very day, before the sun went down, he 
went to Indra's holy mountain and spoke with the mighty 

The Holy Mountain 47 

mountain giant, asking if he might have Dewi Jurangga as 
his wife. 

The mountain giant roared with rage that a raksasa should 
dare speak like that to him; and he roared even louder when 
Dewi Jurangga said that if her father would not consent to 
their marriage, she would go to his enemy, Bromo, and throw 
herself into the pool of fire on his mountain. 

But when the mountain giant had roared himself out, he 
began to fear that, if he refused to let Dewi Jurangga become 
the raksasa's wife, Bromo might be so angry that he would 
send more fire and lava over his fertile fields and that he 
might also take Dewi Jurangga as a sacrifice if she threw her- 
self into the pool of fire. 

So he said to the raksasa, "Listen to me, favorite of the great 
Brahma. Many years ago I promised the gods that my child 
should be given in marriage only to a being with supernatu- 
ral powers and strength; no giant's son, but a son of the gods, 
must be her husband. And, in order that I may know if he is 
really a son of the gods, he must make a sea of sand around 
my enemy, Bromo, in one night that is, between the time 
the sun sets and the time the first cock crows. It must be a 
sea of sand a thousand feet deep and a thousand feet wide, 
so that fire cannot harm my fields any more and so that 
streams of boiling lava will be quenched in the sand. If you 
can do that in one night, you may have my daughter as your 
wife. But if the sea of sand is not finished when the first cock 
crows, then you shall be turned to stone and you shall remain 
so for a thousand times a thousand years." 

The raksasa thought about this for a while and then he 
lifted up his head and looked at the lovely face of the giant's 
daughter and said, "I will try to do this, oh great and mighty 


ruler of India's holy mountain! Tomorrow evening, when the 
sun goes down, I will begin my task. 7 ' 

And he said to Dewi Jurangga, "Bring me the very biggest 
batok (half a coconut-shell) that you can find, and lay it on 
the spot where we first met." 

The following evening, shortly before the sun went down, 
Dewi Jurangga brought the raksasa the batok. "Do your best/' 
she whispered to him. "Show your power, and we shall be 
happy forever after/' 

The raksasa took the batok out of her little hands, and said 
earnestly, "I will prove myself, kembang manis (lovely 
flower)/ 7 

And as soon as the sun had disappeared below the horizon 
he began to fill the batok with sand. He threw the sand into 
piles that became mounds, and mounds that became hills. 
He scooped up the sand around the mountain Bromo, nor 
did he pay any attention when Bromo shouted at him and 
threw red-hot rocks of lava at him. He went right on with his 
scooping, coconut-shell after coconut-shell full of sand. He 
worked all night with such furious energy that, when it was 
almost morning, he had made a sea of sand around Bromo 
that was nine hundred and ninety feet wide and nine hun- 
dred and ninety feet deep. 

"Just ten more feet to fill, before the sun comes up," he 
panted, "and then. * . ." And the raksasa took up his batok 
again and filled it with sand. 

Now the giant of Smeru, Indra's holy mountain, was watch- 
ing, with his giant's eyes that could pierce the deepest darkness, 
to see how the raksasa was getting on with his tremendous 
task. When he realized that the work would be finished before 
daybreak, and that he would have to give his beloved daugh- 

ter to the raksasa, he was beside himself with anger. For, of 
course, he would have to keep his promise. 

Just then the raksasa threw another batok of sand, with a 
noise like thunder, onto the mounds that were already so 
high. This made the mountain giant even angrier. "Just a few 
more feet, and the work will be done/' he muttered. "And it 
is still a long time till daybreak!" Wait . . . Was that the 
crow of a cock that he heard? No, it was only his imagination. 
He heard nothing but the scooping up of sand! But he began 
to think, what if he himself should imitate the crowing of the 
cock. After all, it was to save his child! And he was a giant, a 
demigod; he could do anything he wished. 

"Kukeleku," he cried suddenly. 

"Kukeleku." the cocks in the various villages answered him. 

The cocks had crowed! The day had begun! 

And the raksasa, who still had three feet to fill, heard the 
sound with fear and anger. Furiously he balled his fist; furi- 
ously he took the batok filled with sand and threw it from 


him. Upside down, with its round part on top, the batok 
lay in the deep place that he had scooped out around the 
Bromo; and there it remained forever, as a high mountain, 
which people called the Batok. 

But as soon as the raksasa had thrown down the batok, he 
heard a penetrating scream. Looking up he saw Dewi }u- 
rangga, staring at him with her great dark eyes, her hair 
streaming about her. "Kembang Manis! Kembang!" he cried 
to her sadly. "Lovely flower! All my work has been for noth- 

But the beautiful young daughter of the mountain giant 
did not answer him. She had been turned to stone from hor- 
ror; she had been changed into a mountain. And people 
called it the Kembang, after the last, loving word that the 
raksasa had said to her. For he, too, was turned to stone, just 
as the mountain giant had prophesied he would be if he did 
not finish his gigantic task before the beginning of the day. 
He, too, became a mountain the Segarawedi. 

The mountain giant received his punishment, too. In the 
end, he punished himself. He was so afraid of Brahma's anger 
that he hid himself in the depths of the Smeru, and there he 
still sits and sighs and moans over the two lives he ruined so 
cruelly. With every sigh he expels a heavy cloud of smoke 
that pushes through the top of the mountain and then spreads 
over the sky in a beautiful white plume. And the mountain 
giant must remain there, sighing and moaning and blowing 
out smoke clouds, until the raksasa, now the Segarawedi, and 
Dewi Jurangga, now the Kembang, return to their human 
forms after a thousand times a thousand years; until the moun- 
tain Bromo has sunk out of sight, and until the Sand Sea is 
once more what it was in the beginning. 


RAJAH PAHIT was the son of one of the mightiest rulers of all 
Java. One day he got into a game of dice and lost his money 
and his costly ornaments of gold and silver and jewels. The 
only things he had left were the heirlooms he had inherited 
from his forebears, and these he had to take to the pawnshop 
to pay his debts. 

Losing his heirlooms, many of which had belonged to his 
father, made the Rajah despair. He was afraid to tell his 
father what he had done and so, one night, he fled the king- 
dom with his wife and little two-year-old daughter. He had 
no idea where to go, and wandered from place to place until, 
weary of foot and weary of heart, he settled down on the 
slope of the mountain Merbabu. There he lived for many 
years a life of penance, praying and fasting, until Brahma took 
pity on him. 

One evening Rajah Pahit and his wife and their now 
grown daughter Ruwana were sitting in front of their hut. 
As always, the Rajah was softly saying his prayers, his head 
sunk on his chest. 

When he ceased praying for a moment, his wife said gently, 


"Why don't you rest a while? You have prayed so long. Surely 
Brahma must hear you soon!" 

The Rajah did not look up as his wife spoke to him. He 
merely shook his snow-white head. The white hair contrasted 
strangely with his dark skin. Only his deep-set, brilliant eyes 
showed that he was still a young man. 

Now it happened that Brahma, who knows all, knew that 
the Rajah Pahit was not a wicked man, but had just given in 
to a momentary weakness. Brahma thought, I will help him; 
he has suffered enough. The moon was shining brightly, and 
it occurred to Brahma to call Kajangka, the ruler of the moon, 
to him. "Take something to Rajah Pahit/' he said, "that will 
make him rich again, so that he can get back all he lost in 
his game of chance." 

Kajangka had no desire to help the people of the earth, but 
he had to do what Brahma had requested of him. And so, 
the very next evening, he rode a moonbeam to earth. He set 
himself down near the top of Merbabu, on a spot where he 
could just see the bamboo hut of Rajah Pahit. And as he 
glanced through an opening in one of the bamboo walls, he 
saw the lovely Ruwana, a maiden as beautiful and radiant 
as the sun. 

No sooner had he seen Ruwana than he desired her as his 
bride. Swiftly he changed himself into a handsome young 
man, went into the hut, and asked Rajah Pahit to give him 
his daughter in marriage. 

"I am only a poor exile/' Rajah Pahit said haughtily, "but, 
after all, I am not going to give my daughter to someone who 
is of a lower caste than myself." 

"I do not belong to a lower caste/' Kajangka said. "I have 
been sent by Brahma. It is his desire that you become rich 
so that you can buy back all the heirlooms that you had to 

pawn. Listen!" He leaned close. "The Creator kneaded the 
sun from a pile of clay. From what was left over, lie kneaded 
the moon. But just before he began to knead the moon, I- 
who had not yet drunk of the life-water and was only a mortal 
wandering on the earth I took a piece of this clay and buried 
it in Merbabu, the very mountain on which you're living. 
Now if you will promise to give me your lovely daughter in 
marriage, I will teach you the art of pottery-making!" 

"Why should I learn pottery-making?" Rajah Pahit asked. 

"So that you can become rich/' Kajangka answered im- 
patiently. "So that you can buy back all the heirlooms you 
had to pawn. I will teach you to make pottery of a most 
special kind and shape. You shall make the pottery out of 
this unusual clay, that I have buried here in the mountain, 
and because it's the same clay out of which the moon was 
kneaded, the pottery will be rare and costly/ 7 

Rajah Pahit gave his lovely daughter Ruwana to the ruler 
of the moon, and in return Kajangka taught him pottery- 
making. The clay was inexhaustible, it seemed, and of a pecul- 


iar whiteness. Kajangka decided that it should be made into 
big water jars. Rajah Pahit helped him, and he was so clever 
and quick that he learned pottery-making in one night. 

Soon they had made so many water jars that the top of 
Merbabu and even the tops of some smaller mountains nearby 
were covered with them. 

"What a quantity of water jars we have!" Kajangka cried 
to his father-in-law one day. "I think we really ought to build 
a wall around the tops of the mountains, because you never 
can tell who might see these beautiful water jars and steal 
them from us." 

"That's a good idea/' Rajah Pahit said. "We'll begin at 

They started to build a bamboo wall on the tops of the 
mountains, so that the water jars would be hidden from view, 
and only the gods could see them from their heaven. 

Three mountain tops had been ringed with walls when 
suddenly there was a violent thunderstorm, just above Mer- 
babu. Rajah Pahit left his work and fled to his hut, and 
Kajangka flew to the moon. After a while, when the storm 
had abated somewhat and the two potters wanted to return 
to their work, they saw, to their horror, that all the water jars 
had disappeared from the mountains that had not yet been 
fenced in at the top. 

"No doubt they flew away because they were afraid of the 
lightning," Rajah Pahit surmised. "But where in the world 
could they be?" 

"I don't know," Kajangka said. "But I do know that this 
must be a sign from Brahma. He is telling us that all the 
water jars that remain must be sold. And I must go back to 
the gods' heaven, but I will take my wife with me." 

At first Rajah Pahit grumbled at that, for he knew how 

The Origin of the Water Jars 55 

much he would miss his lovely daughter. But then he began 
selling the handsome water jars, and soon he had so much 
money that he could buy back his costly heirlooms, and re- 
turn to his own kingdom, and his grief over the loss of his 
daughter lessened. For he knew now that Ruwana had a good 
life with Kajangka; he knew that because, when the moon was 
full, he could see her laughing face. 

But what happened to the water jars that disappeared? 

Well, it's true that they fled because they were afraid of 
the lightning. They not only fled from Java, but they flew as 
far away as the island of Borneo. There they buried them- 
selves deep in the dense and ancient forests. Surely, they 
thought, no mortal could ever find them now. 

However, the legend tells us, they were found, centuries 
later by the natives of Borneo. And when the Dyaks learned 
that these jars had been made of clay from which the sun 
and the moon had been kneaded, they were overjoyed, for 
they realized that to have a jar of such supernatural origin in 
one's house would be a piece of wonderful good fortune. Sick- 
ness and evil spirits would be banished from the neighbor- 
hood of a house containing one of these jars. 

And even today, having a jar of that kind in the house is 
of the greatest importance. Not only does its presence banish 
sickness and evil spirits, but it brings luck at harvest time and 
in fishing, and it blesses a marriage. 

The buying of a water jar, then, is an event to be celebrated. 
In a house where a new water jar has been acquired, there is 
feasting for seven days and seven nights. The Dyak priest- 
esses sing and dance. And seven little figures, carved of iron- 
wood, are set up at the doorway and remain there seven 
months, so that whoever passes by may know that the people 
who live in that house have bought a new water jar. 


EVERY YEAR Cholera made a visit to the Holy City of Mecca. 
Her companions were always Death and Fear. One year it 
happened that Fear came before Death and Cholera, and the 
gatekeeper, who did not know her, let her go into the city. 

When the other two appeared before the gate of the Holy 
City, the watchman called angrily, "So! You come again to 
bring sorrow and misery, do you? And how many victims are 
you going to take this time, cursed Cholera?" 

"Don't carry on so/ 7 Cholera said easily. "I imagine I won't 
take more than five hundred." 

"And you, dread Death," the gatekeeper cried, turning to 
her. "How many people are you going to take out of the Holy 
City to your kingdom?" 

"Oh, Til take whatever Cholera gives me," Death answered 

"Well," the gatekeeper muttered, "go in. But watch out, 
Cholera, that you take no more than five hundred victims! 
You promised! And you, Death, don't you dare to take more 
than Cholera gives you!" 

"Gatekeeper," they said together, "you can rely on our 


The Three Companions 57 

word." And side by side they passed through the opened gate 
and into the Holy City. 

Long weeks they remained in the city, and then they called 
to the gatekeeper to open the gates again. 

"Hmm," the gatekeeper muttered, "how many victims do 
you take, Cholera?" 

"I did my best not to go beyond the promised number/' 
Cholera answered. "And so I am taking no more than four 
hundred and ninety/' 

"Now, that sounds as if you're speaking the truth," the 
gatekeeper decided. He turned toward Death. "And you, 
Death, how many are you taking with you?" 

"Oh, I am taking more than a thousand with me," Death 
answered at once. 

The gatekeeper was horrified. "How can that be?" he cried 
in astonishment. "Cholera herself said she is taking only four 
hundred and ninety!" 

"Yes," Death answered, "that is what Cholera is taking. 
But most of those who died were taken by Fear, who came 
unnoticed through your gate. One day you will know, old 
man, that our sister Fear does more harm and causes more 
deaths than Cholera!" 


ONCE UPON A TIME Fire, Water, and Honor were going on a 
journey together. They wanted to see something more of the 
world than the high mountains and the old cities full of 
temples and the palm trees. 

While they were walking, and talking of this and that, the 
question came up of how they would ever find each other 
again if one of them should happen to be lost. 

"Why, that would be easy enough," Fire said. "After all, 
wherever you see smoke spiraling in the air, there you will 
find me." 

"And I," Water said, "could be found easily, too. Wherever 
there are seas and rivers, brooks and ponds, there I will be." 
They turned toward Honor. "And where would you be found, 
good friend?" 

"I think," Honor said slowly, "that you would never be 
able to find me again once you had lost me." 

The two others would not believe that. So they talked of 
other things as they walked along. Soon they came to a cross- 
roads. Fire went to the right, Water to the left, and Honor- 
Honor suddenly disappeared. 


Fire, Water, and Honor 59 

In his wanderings, Fire came to the house of a mortal. 
There Water finally found him, and as soon as he found him 
he almost extinguished Fire. Fire was so glad to see his friend 
again that he cried, "Now let us take to the road again and 
find Honor!" 

A little bit of Fire, which had not been put out by Water, 
went with Water in search of their friend, Honor. They 
searched for him in the villages and in the towns, and when 
they could not find him there, they went to the high moun- 
tains and to the deep valleys, and when they did not find him 
there, they went to the seas and to the rivers. 

"We've looked everywhereexcept in the forests/' Water 
said to Fire. 

"You're right/' Fire answered. "Well, then, let's search for 
him in the forests." 

So they went to the dark, thick forests and searched for 
Honor among the great trees, in the dim, frightening light. 
In the middle of one of these forests lived a hermit who was 
blind. Fire and Water hunted up this old man and asked him 
if, at some time or other, he had ever met Honor in the woods. 

"Honor?" the hermit repeated. "Why are you hunting for 

"Well," Fire said, "weWater and I started on a journey 
with him, and on the way somehow we lost him. So we have 
taken to the road again to find him." 

The blind old hermit shook his head sadly. "You lost Honor 
on your journey," he said. "And whoever loses Honor shall 
never find him again. For you see, Honor is like the light 
of a man's eyes. That, too, you never get back once you have 
lost it." 

Now, for the first time, Fire and Water believed the words 


that Honor had spoken to them so long ago. They knew that 
it was useless to hunt further, and they returned to the home 
of the mortal. There Fire burned, and Water evaporated. And 
that, says the story, is because they had lost Honor and could 
never find him again. 


BEHIND A CERTAIN VILLAGE in Java there stands a mountain, 
and on this mountain grows a tree called the warn. From the 
wood of this tree the natives cut their lance shafts, and a Java- 
nese man holds the wara tree in great esteem because he be- 
lieves that if his lance has a shaft of the waru wood he will 
have no trouble in overcoming his enemies. The reason lie 
believes this is told in a very old story. 

The name of the mountain meant "fragrant" that is, a 
place with an air of holiness about it. And men called the 
mountain holy because in its caverns lived many hermits. 

Among these hermits were some who possessed supernatu- 
ral powers. One of the hermits was a very old and pious and 
wise man. They called him Kawitjaksana which means "her- 
mit full of wisdom." People came from far places to hear his 
words, and ask for his advice because it was always good. 

The old man lived in poverty. He wore a garment woven of 
bark, tied around his waist with strong plant fibers, and he 
ate only the fruits and herbs that he found in the woods and 
on the mountain. When he had fasted two days and was 
almost a skeleton, he would fast still a third and even a fourth 
day. Moreover, he lived like a hermit: He did not speak with 



the other hermits, but only to Brahma, the Creator, and with 
the people who came to him for advice on matters that 
troubled them. 

The other hermits, many of whom did not lead pious lives, 
after a time became jealous of the way people preferred this 
kindly, simple man to themselves. In their unreasoning jeal- 
ousy they plagued the gentle, grey-haired tapa in all kinds of 
evil ways; finally the poor old man could not come outside 
his cave without being hit by rotten fruit and wounded by 
stones thrown by the other hermits. 

This went on for a long time. Still the old hermit did not 
moan over his lot, nor did he protest that people of his own 
caste were making life unbearable for him. The tapa did not 
ask for help from any of the gods nor from Brahma, the 

It happened that at this time no waru trees grew on the 
holy mountain. It was bare except for great stones, and its 
sides were cleft by deep fissures and caves, and the nearest 
village was far away. That was why the villagers had no idea 
of what the poor old hermit had to endure. 

It came to pass that the hermit, having fasted for two days, 
was driven by hunger to come out of his cave to hunt for 
something to eat. As he was walking feebly along a ravine, 
where he was accustomed to gathering roots and herbs, some 
of the other hermits saw him. At a sign from one of the most 
villainous, they fell upon the pious man and rushed him 
toward the edge of the ravine, to throw him down onto the 
sharp, pointed stones that lay at the bottom. 

The tapa knew that his enemies wanted to kill him, and 
that he would surely die if they threw him over the cliff. 

He had never asked anything of Brahma but now he sent 

up a fervent prayer to the Creator to give him a sign, some- 
thing that might save him from his enemies. 

Even as he prayed, an enormous snake fell at the feet of 
the hermits. At first they shrank back, frightened, but when 
they saw what it was, they cried, "Oh, it's only a snake! What 
do we have to fear from a snake? If it's a poisonous one, it 
can't harm uswe're holy men!" With that they grabbed the 
old tapa and pushed him closer to. the edge of the cliff. 

At that instant the snake, sent by Brahma, flung up its head 
and planted its tail in the loose earth so that it stood upright 
between the pious tapa and his enemies. 

They fell back in astonishment, and before their eyes the 
snake began to change into a tree. The head split into many 
branches, and each drop of the snake's venom became thick 
leaves. When the hermits saw this, they understood at last 


the power of the wise old tapa. They bowed low before him, 
then one of them rose and cut a branch from the tree, fash- 
ioning it into a lance shaft which he presented to the grey- 
haired tapa, saying, "May the lance which this shaft shall hold 
kill all of us, if we ever forget to honor you as the bravest, 
wisest and mightiest of hermits!" 

Now, as the man spoke these words, another miracle took 
place. For as soon as the old tapa grasped the shaft, it sud- 
denly acquired a fine-pointed lance. The other hermits bowed 
still lower in homage before their mighty brother, and they 
cried, "Now we have seen that you are high, high above us, 
that you are truly one of Brahma's chosen!" 

And even now, after all this time, when new waru trees 
rise from the earth on the holy mountain, people greet their 
appearance with joy because they know that they have grown 
out of the snake that Brahma sent to save the life of 

That is why the Javanese still say that lance shafts cut from 
the wood of the waru wanggi can do wonderful things, espe- 
cially if carried in battle. For whoever carries a lance with a 
shaft of waru wood will surely overcome all his enemies. 


IN THE LONG AGO DAYS when animals could talk, a boar and 
an antelope were friends. They had not seen each other for 
some time when they met one day and the boar said, "I'm 
sorry to tell you, but you are going to be eaten by me/' 

The antelope started in surprise. "But how can that be?" 
he asked in puzzlement. "We have always been friends. Why 
should you suddenly want to eat me?" 

"It isn't that I want to/' the boar replied, f< but I dreamed 
that I would eat you, so it must be so/' 

The antelope thought this over. "I see what you mean, but 
I should like to put the question to the king. After all, such a 
thing should not happen without the king's approval. Do 
you agree?" 

"Let us go/' the boar answered. "I know I am right, but I 
am willing to let the king hear the case." 

So they went along the road together to the king's palace. 
Now they did not know that an ape had been sitting in a 
tree while they talked, and had heard everything. Out of curi- 
osity he went along, too leaping from tree branch to tree 
branch very quietly. They did not know he was keeping pace 



with them, and when they reached the king, who was holding 
court out of doors, the ape hid himself in a tall tree, the better 
to see and hear. 

"I have come, O king," the antelope said, "because my 
friend the boar tells me that he will have to eat me/' 

The king looked from one to the other. "And you are his 
friend?' 7 he asked the boar. 

"True," the boar replied. 

"Then why must you eat your friend?" 

"Because I dreamed it," the boar answered, "and if I 
dreamed it, it must come to pass." 

The king said thoughtfully, "Yes, that is so. If you dreamed 
it, it must come to pass. It is unfortunate, but there is nothing 
I can do." 

There was a sudden rustling in the tree above them, and 
the ape made a flying leap to the ground, landing almost at 
the feet of the king. 

The king was startled and angry. "What do you mean, 
frightening us like that? What are you doing here, ape?" 

The ape answered promptly, "Well, I dreamed that I was 
to marry your daughter, O king, so I have come to get her." 

The king rose from his chair. "Begone! How dare you say 
a thing like that?" 

"I dreamed it. I am to marry your daughter." 

"It is impossible!" The king shouted so loudly that the 
leaves shook on the trees. "I will not hear of it! It is impossi- 
ble, I say!" 

"No," the ape returned calmly, "it is possible. Have you not 
just said that the antelope must be eaten by the boar because 
the boar dreamed it? If that is possible, then it is possible 
that I will marry your daughter because I dreamed it." 

The king sat down again, and was silent for a long time. 

They could tell that he was thinking. Everyone waited for 
his words . . . but, most of all, the antelope waited. 

Then the king held up his hand. "Let it be known, every- 
where and at once, that the decision I rendered cannot be 
carried out The antelope will not be eaten by the boar. For 
now Ihave learned that the possible can be impossible, and 
the impossible remains impossible, whether one dreams it or 


ONE OF THE FAVORITE animals in Indonesia is the delicate little 
mouse-deer, or kanchil. He is so tiny and quick and alert that 
people have made him the hero of any number of stories. 
Here are three of them. The first one is from Java. 


It was a hot day in the forest and the kantjil had just found 
a quiet shady spot for a rest when he heard a tiger approach- 
ing. He knew that the tiger would want to kill and eat him, 
and he had to think fast. When the tiger poked his head 
through the tall grasses, the mouse-deer was fanning a pile 
of rotting leaves with a large palm leaf. 

The tiger was curious and came closer. "What are you 
doing?" he asked. 

"I am guarding the king's food/' the mouse-deer answered. 
"This is very special food, and only for the king. I have to 
take good care of it." 

"Royal food!" the tiger cried. "I should like to taste it." 

"Oh, that's impossible/ 7 the kanchil said, fanning busily 


Three Tales of the Mouse-Deer 69 

to keep the flies off. "Only the king may eat of this food" 

"But couldn't I try it just once?" 

The kanchil shook his head. 

"Just one bite?" the tiger begged. "I'm hungry, but I prom- 
ise to take only one bite/' 

"WeU"--the mouse-deer pretended to think hard "maybe 
just one bite/' The tiger came closer. "No, no! Wait! You 
mustn't taste it till I've gone. After all, I feel badly about 
betraying my trust. I was to guard this food for the king. And 
I wouldn't want any blame to attach to me/' 

The tiger nodded, his eyes on the king's food. He began 
to lick his lips. 

"Wait till I give you the word/' the kanchil insisted, and 
the tiger promised. 

The mouse-deer ran swiftly into the forest, and when lie 
was a safe distance from the tiger he called, "You may taste 
it now!" 

The tiger fell upon the royal food. One bite and he dis- 
covered that it wasn't something special and delicious. It was 
only rotting leaves. He spat it out, and with a mighty growl 
he started after the mouse-deer. "I'll get you!" he shouted. 
"Wait till I find you! I'll tear you into bits!" 

The mouse-deer, meanwhile, had scurried on, hunting 
safety. But there was no place to hide, and he knew he would 
have to rely on his wits. So he searched till he found a great 
snake, coiled up asleep, and sat down beside it. He had no 
sooner sat down than he heard the tiger crashing through the 
trees, growling as he came. 

"You miserable wretch!" the tiger snarled, showing his red 
gums and his sharp white teeth. "I'll eat you alive! Fooling me 
like that!" 

"But I didn't fool you," the kanchil said innocently. "I told 


you not to eat it. I told you it was the king's food and that 
I was not supposed to let anyone have it! But you insisted/ 7 

"The awful stuff !" the tiger muttered, shaking his great 
head from side to side. "I can't get the taste out of my mouth. 
You'll pay for this!" 

"You mustn't blame me," the kanchil cried. "I warned you. 
But do keep quiet. I'm guarding the king's girdle." 

The tiger came closer. "What's so wonderful about that?" 
he asked, peering at the coiled snake. 

"It's the king's girdle/' the kanchil repeated. "And I feel 
honored that he trusts me to guard it." 


"Because it's full of magic power/' the mouse-deer said, 
with an important air. "Whoever wears it can have whatever 
he wishes. So of course only the king may wear it." 

The tiger's eyes grew bright. "Magic power! I have a wish 
that I'd like to have granted. Let me try it on ... just once, 
just for a moment." 

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" the mouse-deer said in a shocked 

"The king need never know/' the tiger wheedled. "Just let 
me have it for a moment." 

"Well" the mouse-deer pretended to be reluctant "per- 
haps just for a moment " But as the tiger came closer he 

cried, "No, no! Wait! You mustn't try it on till I have gone. 
For, of course, no blame must attach to me, and I must not 
see you pick it up." 

"Well, get on, then," the tiger said impatiently. "I can 
scarcely wait to get my wish." 

The mouse-deer leaped nimbly through the forest and when 
he was a long distance away he called back, "Now you may try 
it on!" 

Three Tales of the Mouse-Deer 71 

The tiger eagerly tried to pick up what he thought was the 
magic girdle, but as soon as he touched it the snake woke with 
a hiss and bit the tiger while it wound itself around his body. 
The tiger, taken by surprise, had to fight hard to loosen the 
coils of the angry snake, and it was only after a long, hard 
struggle that he was able to kill it. 

Now he was so furious that he could scarcely see. He 
charged through the jungle to find the mouse-deer. 'Til have 
my revenge!" he shouted and all the jungle creatures shook to 
hear his bellow. "Wait till I find you, kanchil! I'll make you 
sorry you ever tried to trick me!" 

The mouse-deer heard him and trembled where he sat, half- 
hidden near a tall clump of bamboo. Before the tiger could 
open his mouth, the kanchil said, in a joyful voice, "Oh, there 
you are again! Look, IVe been appointed to take care of the 
king's trumpet! A wonderful instrument!" 

"What's so wonderful about it?" the tiger muttered, coming 
closer. He was still smarting with anger, and his wounds hurt. 

"Oh, IVe never tried it, of course," the kanchil said hur- 
riedly. "It's much too fine for anyone like me. But I've been 
told," he said, lowering his voice, "that if you put your tongue 
between these" he waved toward two of the tallest bamboos 
"and wait till the wind blows, they give out the most beau- 
tiful music!" 

"That sounds interesting," the tiger mumbled. "IVe always 
fancied myself as a musician. Fd like to try it." 

"But not anyone can play it!" the mouse-deer said, horri- 
fied. "If s the king's trumpet, don't you understand? Only the 
king can play it. And he has set me to guard it for him." 

"Nonsense," said the tiger. "How will he ever know? Fin 
sure I could play it." 

"Well," the mouse-deer said slowly, "If you want to try. ... 


But I would feel dreadful if anything happened to the royal 
instrument. So you must promise to let me get safely away 
before you begin. I wouldn't want any blame to attach to me." 

"Hurry up, then/' the tiger said, his eyes fastened on what 
he thought was the king's trumpet. "What did you say I must 

"Put your tongue between the two tallest reeds. And be 
sure to wait till the wind blows!" 

The mouse-deer scurried away. The tiger, his eyes aglitter, 
put his tongue between the two tall bamboos which grew very 
close together, and waited. And after a while a strong gust of 
wind came, and shook the bamboos, and the tiger let out a cry 
of rage and pain. For his tongue, caugjit between the reeds, 
had been pinched off! 

Now he bellowed with fury and bounded through the jungle 
to find the mouse-deer. He tore through the underbrush, 
hardly able to see for pain. At last he found the kanchil stand- 
ing beside a great wasp's nest. He tried to say, "What are you 

The mouse-deer said, "I can't understand you. . . . Oh, you 
mean, what am I doing here? I'm guarding tihe king's drum. 
Isn't it beautiful? And strange-looking, too. Of course, it would 
be strange-looking. It's not an ordinary drum, you see. It's a 
magic drum. And only the king may play it." 

The tiger made gurgling sounds and the mouse-deer said, 
"You mean, you want to try it?" 

The tiger nodded, his eyes blood-red. 

"I don't think I could let you do that." The mouse-deer 
acted as if he were thinking hard, "It wouldn't be right." 

But as the tiger came closer and he could feel the hot breath 

on his face, he said, "Well You might try it, just once. But 

only if you let me get away from here first. I've been set to 


guard this wonderful drum, and I wouldn't want any blame to 
attach to me in case something happened to it." 

The tiger nodded, and the kanchil started to run. "Just strike 
it once/' he said. "When I give you the word. It has such a 
wonderful tone that no one could bear to hear it more than 
once/ 7 

The tiger was impatient. "All right, I'm going," the mouse- 
deer said hurriedly, and he leaped away through the under- 
brush. When he was safely out of sight he called, "Now!" 

And the tiger struck the nest with his great paw. A cloud of 
wasps, angry at being disturbed, flew out and swarmed around 
his head. They stung him on the nose and the ears and on the 
sides and on his legs; they even stung his tail. The tiger ran 
madly through the jungle, blind with rage and pain. He ran 
and ran until he found a pool of water; he plunged in it and 
was never seen again. 

The mouse-deer lay under a palm tree and fanned himself. 
"Well," he sighed,, "it was hard, but it was worth it. I may be 
small, but I'm clever. Now he'll never bother me any more/' 


This tale comes from Borneo. 

"I am going fishing," the mouse-deer said one day. 

"Fd like to go along," the tortoise said, creeping up. 

"And I," said the ape. 

"May I go, too?" the elephant begged. "I've always wanted 
to go fishing." 

The mouse-deer said they might all accompany him, and 
they trooped through the jungle to the river. Between them 
they caught a great many fishtoo many to eat right away, and 
the mouse-deer decided that they ought to smoke some of the 
fish, in case they got hungry later in the season. 

Three Tales of the Mouse-Deer 75 

They built a big fire on the banks of the river and smoked 
most of the fish they had caught Next day they decided to go 
fishing again, but the mouse-deer said, "Somebody has to stay 
here while we're away, to watch the drying fish." 

"Very well/' said the elephant. "I'll stay. No one would 
dare to steal our fish while Fm on guard/' 

So the elephant stayed behind. But while he was sitting near 
the drying fish there was a great crashing in the jungle and out 
walked an enormous giant who came up, ate fee fish, and 
walked off again. The elephant was so frightened that he could 
do nothing, and when the others came back he told them 
what had happened. 

"You were certainly a fine guard!" his companions jeered. 
"Do you mean to say you let that giant steal our fish without 
so much as saying a word?" 

"If you had seen him" the elephant began. But the others 
laughed, though they were upset because their fish had been 
stolen, and all their work had gone for nothing. They had a 
big catch again this evening, so they decided to have a nice 
supper, and smoke the rest of the fish to take home with them. 
When the fish were drying next morning they set off, but first 
they voted that the ape should stay behind to guard their store. 

The ape climbed a tree where he could see over the land- 
scape. It was quiet and peaceful and he had almost fallen 
asleep when suddenly there was a tremendous noise and 
through the underbrush came the giant who walked up to the 
pile of drying fish, ate them all, and went away. 

The ape was so terrified he could not let out even a small 
screech, and he was still twittering with fear when the others 
returned with another fine catch of fish. 

When the rest of the party heard what had happened, they 
were angry. "Somebody has got to stop this thief," they said, 


It was the tortoise who volunteered to stay this time. "I'll keep 
an eye on our fish/ 7 he said. "No one will be able to get close 
enough to eat them/' 

But watch though he did, never closing an eye, he could not 
prevent the giant from consuming all their fish again that day. 

"This has got to stop/' the mouse-deer said. "None of you 
knows what to do. I'm surprised at you. Now it's my turn. I 
should have stayed the very first day; then nothing like this 
would have happened/' 

In spite of their worry and fear, the other animals laughed 
at the boasting of the little mouse-deer. "If we couldn't stop 
the giant, what do you think you could do?" they taunted. 
"You're so small, how do you think you could get the better 
of him?" 

"I don't know, but I think I could," the mouse-deer said. 
"Anyhow, let's dry the fish again, and I'll stay tomorrow while 
you go fishing. We must have something to take home with 

As soon as the fishermen had left the next morning, the 
mouse-deer hunted up four stout posts which he set into the 
ground. Then he searched for some rattan and wove the 
strands into four strong rings. It wasn't long before there was 
a crashing and thrashing in the jungle, and the giant appeared 
again. The mouse-deer kept right on working, plaiting the rat- 
tan into rings. 

The giant was very curious. "What are you doing?" he 

"Oh, I have some friends who suffer from bad pains in their 
backs," the mouse-deer said, never looking up. "I know a 
remedy for pains in the back and I am making it now." 

"Very interesting," said the giant in a voice that fairly shook 
the earth. "Very interesting. You see, I suffer from pains in 
the back, myself. Do you think you could cure me?" 

Three Tales of the Mouse-Deer 77 

"I'm sure I could. This remedy never fails/' the mouse-deer 
said. He stood up. "Go over there and lie down." 

The giant lay down on the earth. "Now put your elbows 
close to your sides, and pull your knees up to your chest," said 
the mouse-deer. 

The giant did so. "What are you going to do now?" 

'Til massage you/' the mouse-deer said, "and put on the 


He ran around the giant and slipped the rattan rings over 
his arms and legs and pulled them tight. Then he fastened the 
rings to the strong posts. The giant began to eye the mouse- 
deer warily. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" 

"Yes, indeed Wait just a minute and you'll see/ 7 the 
mouse-deer replied, and walked away. 

The giant tried to get up to go after him, but he could not 
rise. The more he struggled, the tighter he drew the rattan 
bonds and they held him fast. He shouted and growled and 
rumbled and roared, but he could not break loose. 

When the fishermen came back, bringing the biggest catch 
they had ever had, they found the little mouse-deer sitting 
quietly beside a tree, with the bound and furious giant lying 
near him, still struggling. 

Now that the giant was trapped they had no trouble in kill- 
ing him. They all marveled at the mouse-deer's feat. "Haw did 
you ever do it?" they asked. 

"Well," the mouse-deer said, "when you're small and weak, 
you have to use your brain." 


One day a mouse-deer was running through the forest when 
he fell into a deep pit that was covered over with leaves. He 
struggled mightily to climb up the muddy sides of the pit, only 
to fall back again to the bottom. He leaped into the air until 


he was exhausted. In despair, he crouched in a comer, trying 
to think what he could do. 

Just then an elephant came by and peered into the pit. 
"Why, what are you doing down there?' 7 he asked in surprise. 

The mouse-deer said quickly, "Oh, I got word that the sky 
will soon fall, and that all the creatures in the forest will be 
crushed to death. So I climbed down here to save myself." 

"The sky's going to fall?" the elephant repeated in alarm. 

The mouse-deer nodded. "And all of you will be crushed to 

"When will it happen?" the elephant asked. 

"Very soon now." 

"Let me come down there with you," the elephant begged. 
"I don't want to be killed." 

The mouse-deer appeared to think this over. "There's 
scarcely room for you -and me," he said finally. "But I feel 
sorry for you. Come on down." 

The elephant thanked him heartily and crashed clumsily 
into the pit, while the mouse-deer cowered in a corner. When 
the elephant was safely down, the nimble mouse-deer sprang 
onto his back and was so close to the top of the pit that with 
one leap he was over the edge and on his way. 

Finally the kanchil came to a river, but he discovered that it 
was too deep and broad for him to cross because he could 
neither wade nor swim. He thought hard, for he must get 
across the river. 

Standing on the riverbank, he had an idea. He called loudly 
for all the crocodiles to come together. The oldest crocodile 
said, "Why?" 

"Because the king has sent me as his messenger. He said 
that all the crocodiles in the river must be counted." 

The oldest crocodile told the others and they began to come 

Three Tales of the Mouse-Deer 79 

together in one spot. They came by twos and threes and fours, 
by tens and dozens. 

When they were all assembled the mouse-deer said impor- 
tantly, "Now line up in a row from bank to bank, so that I can 
count you." 

The crocodiles meekly ranged themselves in a row that ex- 
tended from one bank of the river to the other, and the little 
mouse-deer leaped on the first crocodile's back. "One!" he 
shouted. He jumped on the back of the second crocodile. 
"Two!" he cried. And so he went, from one to the other, 
counting as he jumped . . . until he came safely to the other 
side of the river. 

"What foolish creatures you are/' he teased, "to believe 
everything you hear, and to do as anyone says!" 

They were angry, but the oldest crocodile was more than 
angry. He was determined to have revenge on the tricky little 
mouse-deer. So he bided his time and when, at last, the mouse- 
deer came down to the river's edge to get a drink, the oldest 
crocodile was waiting for him and grabbed one of the kanchil's 
legs in his mouth. 

The mouse-deer thought swiftly. He picked up a branch 
from the bank and said, "That's not my leg you have that's a 
stick of wood. My foot is here!" 

The crocodile let go of the mouse-deer's leg and grabbed the 
piece of wood, and the clever mouse-deer bounded away like 
a streak of lightning, while the crocodile gazed stupidly at the 
piece of wood in his mouth. 

He was cross at being fooled. "Ill lie in wait for him/' he 
vowed, "and make him sorry he tricked me." He lay in the 
water, half -submerged and very quiet, so that he would look 
like a water-soaked log. He knew that the mouse-deer would 
have to come down to the river again to drink. 


And after a while the mouse-deer came. He stood on the 
edge of the river and looked toward the crocodile. He would 
never be able to drink while the crocodile was there. So he said 
loudly, "That may be a log . . . and then again, it may be a 

The oldest crocodile remained motionless. 

"Of course/' the kanchil said, just as loudly, "if it's a croco- 
dile it will float downstream/' 

The crocodile was determined not to give himself away, so 
he scarcely breathed. He was very, very still. 

"But," the mouse-deer called, "if it's a log, it will float up- 

At that the crocodile began to swim against the current, 
and the mouse-deer burst into laughter. 

"Stupid one!" he cried. "I've fooled you again! Now I can 
have my drink in peace." 


THERE WAS ONCE A KING who ruled over one of the mightiest 
kingdoms in Java. He had many children by his many wives. 
The oldest son was called Jamojaja, and he was as handsome 
as one of the gods, as slender as a palm tree, as quick and 
nimble as a young deer, as strong and courageous as the royal 
tiger. But he was also as gentle as a wood dove, and as true as 
a horse of the noblest blood, so he was greatly loved by all the 
king's subjects. Whenever the prince appeared they applauded 
him joyfully, and they bent the knee to him and obeyed his 
slightest command as if he were one of the gods. 

Among all these people there was only one, who hated him, 
and that was Dewi Andana, the second wife of the king. She, 
too, had a son, and so there was envy in her heart, for she 
knew that someday Prince Jamojaja would succeed his father 
on the throne, and then she and her children would be sent 
out of the kingdom. And the king was veiy old, she said to her- 
self, and she herself was much more beautiful than the king's 
first wife. 

Dewi Andana was beautiful, much more beautiful than any 



of the other wives of the king. But she was also the most cun- 
ning of them all She would wind her slim, velvet-soft arms 
around her husband's neck, her dark eyes would gaze at him 
admiringly, and she would dance toward him with his golden 
sirih set; so that, more and more, the king found himself under 
her spell. He gave her the costly ornaments and the fine silks 
for which she asked him in her gentle, flattering voice. 

One day when the king was with Dewi Andana, he said to 
her, "Would my beloved one like to have the bracelet of gold 
with the red and green jewels that the Arab merchant showed 
her yesterday?' 7 But Dewi Andana shook her dark head, and 
whispered in the king's ear, "No, my king, today I do not 
desire any costly ornament. I ask only that you grant me one 

"And what is the wish of my most beautiful wife?" asked 
the king. 

"My wish/' she answered him slowly, "is that our son, Raden 
Samijan, shall someday rule over this kingdom." 

"But that is impossible, as long as Jamojaja lives!" the king 
cried. "And what would his mother, the queen, say if the son 
of my second wife should succeed me?" 

"But am I not the first wife of your heart?" Dewi Andana 
asked in her soft voice. 

"Yes, you are the first wife of my heart," he answered. 

"Well, then," she went on, "why don't you send your son 
Jamojaja to the mountains? Tell him that he must stay there 
forever because his life is in danger here that some of your 
subjects want to poison him. Then he will be afraid and go 

away For if he stays here," she said, "perhaps someday the 

people will demand that you give up your throne before your 
back is bent and your muscles are weakened. Then Jamojaja 
will rule over us, your wives will be banished, and never more 

Why the Waringen Tree Is Holy 83 

will you see your beloved wife, Dewi Andana. Think this over 
well, my husband/' 

And the king, the great ruler who had never been afraid 
before his worst enemies, he who had caught more than fifty 
arrows in his hand, who, with sword and lance and sometimes 
with his kris alone had killed the deadliest tigers, he the strong, 
the courageous, stood now with fear in his heart before the 
lovely young woman. He bowed his head and said to her, "It 
shall be as my most beloved wife wishes. My son Jamojaja 
shall be banished from my kingdom. And after my death 
Samijan, the son of my most beloved wife, shall rule over this 

That very evening the king ordered Jamojaja and his nobles 
to come before him, and when they had come, the king told 
them that he had decided to banish the prince to the moun- 
tains because he understood that there were people who 
wanted to kill him. 

Jamojaja begged, "Let me stay here, Father! I am not afraid 
of death." 

But the king said, "It is my desire that you obey my wish, 
my son." 

And with these words the fate of Jamojaja was sealed. 

The nobles and all the other courtiers were very sad that the 
prince, who was so good and handsome, was to be banished. 
But the saddest of all was Dewi Kesumo, the young and beau- 
tiful wife of Jamojaja. Jamojaja said to her, "Kesumo, joy of 
my life, it is the will of my father that I go away from here. I 
could set myself against his will and say, 1 shall remain in the 
kingdom where I shall rule after your death/ But if I did that, 
I would be going against the adat, the custom, which demands 
of us, as children, that we obey our parents. And you, Kesumo, 
what will you do?" 


"I will do just as your father wishes/' the young woman said 
in her gentlest voice. "I will follow you to the mountains, my 
prince. And neither you nor I will murmur or complain, nor 
will we ask, 'Why may we not stay in the kingdom of our 
father?' No, my husband, we will bow before your father's will, 
as the palm tree bows before the fury of the hurricane. What- 
ever happens, we will remain together/' 

"And your parents, my sweet wife, what will they say if you 
go with me to the mountains?" asked the prince. "Will they 
not sorrow for their daughter?" 

"Kesumo will not listen to the sorrow of her parents/' an- 
swered the princess. "She will listen only to the voice of her 
husband as it cries to her. She will follow him along the roads 
where the rough stones will wound her feet. She will feed on 
the fruits that grow in the woods, and the mountain springs 
will quench her thirst/' 

"And when you are tired, and the sun burns the grass under- 
foot?" asked the prince. 

"Then we will rest under the palm trees in the forest/' an- 
swered the princess, "and the rustle of their leaves will sing us 
to sleep/' 

"Then, my beloved, follow me to the mountains," the 
prince said. 

While Janiojaja and his wife sat talking, a dark form crept 
into the sleeping room of the prince. It was Dewi Andana. She 
was afraid that the king would regret his decision to send his 
oldest son into exile. Then her son would not succeed to the 
throne. And that must be! That must be! Her son must b^ 
come king of this mighty realm! She thought, too, that if 
Jamojaja should die he would never be able later on to come 
back and claim the throne from her son. So she decided to put 
him to death. She put a few drops of a strong, but slow-work- 

Why the Waringen Tree Is Holy 85 

ing, poison into the prince's water jug which stood on a mat 
near the bed, and then she disappeared as quietly as she had 

That night the prince drank from the water jug as he always 
did, and the next morning when he woke up and rose from his 
bed, he felt faint and dizzy. But he did not say anything about 
it, not even to his wife. 

Two days later Jamojaja and the princess left the palace and 
started for the mountains, without taking even one servant 
with them. Although the prince began to feel more and more 
ill, he walked courageously beside his young wife. But one very 
warm day, as they came to a deep ravine, he found that he 
could go no farther. He fell to the ground and lay there pant- 
ing, "My lovely Kesumo, I am dying " 

The poor little princess was crazed with grief. She knelt by 
her dying husband, took his cold hands in her own warm ones, 
and lifted her tear-filled eyes to the heavens. "Oh, great good 
spirits/' she prayed, "please help me! Save ray beloved hus- 

No sooner had Dewi Kesumo said this, than out of the 
heavens appeared Kama Jaja, the protector of married people. 
He came to the spot where the prince lay and bent over the 
dying man. 

At first the princess did not see him, for her eyes were veiled 
with tears. But she did see a strange, brilliant light that radi- 
ated from Kama Jaja, and when her eyes had become some- 
what accustomed to it, she saw the god himself. His face was 
very sad. "O mighty Kama Jaja/' she cried, recognizing him, 
"you, who bless marriages, make me happy once morel Give 
my beloved husband his life again!" 

Kama Jaja's face grew even sadder when he heard these 
words, for he could not make the dead live again. "My beau- 


tiful princess/ 7 he said, "a wicked hand has poisoned your 
husband. And there is no higher power which can undo the 
working of this poison. I will indeed let your husband live 
again on earth, not as a man but as a noble tree which shall 
stand on this very spot." 

At first, Dewi Kesumo did not understand Kama Jaja's 
words. She understood them only when she saw how the body 
of her husband was lifted up, his arms outstretched, his long 
hair falling along his shoulders to the ground. She saw with 
wonder that his body became covered with rough bark; and 
from his bark-covered arms, there suddenly appeared many 
branches graced with beautiful green leaves. Then she saw 
that the long strands of hair that fell to the ground were no 
longer black, but grey. And as she gazed at all this, she noticed 
that his feet were no longer visible. They had sunk into the 
ground. They had become the roots of this strange tree! Dewi 
Kesumo ran sobbing to the tree and threw her arms around its 
rough trunk and laid her face against it, and she cried in her 
sorrow, "What use have I of this soulless tree?" 

"This tree is not soulless," Kama Jaja said. "It is holy, and 
everyone shall call it the holy waringen tree. It shall remain 
holy forever and ever. Its seeds shall spread over the whole of 
Java; the seeds shall germinate and a fine, proud tree shall 
sprout from every seed. Everywhere these trees shall spring 
from the ground, even in the smallest villages. And the holy 
waringen trees shall become the tree under which sacrifices are 
made, everywhere in Java. Kings as well as beggars shall lay 
their offerings to the gods beneath its branches. Children shall 
come to play wherever a waringen stands. Young people shall 
lean against its trunk and whisper their love for each other. 
Under its crown of leaves the bride shall pledge her troth to 
her bridegroom. Kings, weary with war-making, shall come to 

rest under the great and holy waringen, and shall listen to the 
rustle of its leaves telling them of new victories. And woe to 
him who dares to order his slaves to fell a waringen! Sickness 
and great misfortune shall come to him and to his children/' 
When Kama Jaja had said this to Dewi Kesumo, he suddenly 
returned to the heaven of the gods. 

The sad little princess, however, remained standing on the 
same spot, her arms around the trunk of the great tree, her 
head resting against it. And so Dewi Kesumo slipped into 


eternity. Her soul was taken up to the heaven of the gods, and 
her body was changed into a beautiful spring, where crystal- 
clear water forever bubbled. 

While all this was happening in the deep ravine, there was 
sorrow and anxiety in the kingdom because of Jamojaja's dis- 

The nobles and the courtiers knew well enough what had 
happened, but the common people, who were so devoted to 
the prince, knew nothing of what had taken place in the pal- 
ace. And when, after some days, the king let it be known that 
Raden Samijan, the son of his second wife, was to succeed him 
on the throne, they understood suddenly that something 
strange had happened. When they learned of the banishment 
of their beloved prince, they became angry, and demanded 
that he be called back. 

But the common people were not the only ones who wanted 
this. No, the strangest thing was that Samijan himself went to 
the king and begged that his brother, whom he loved so much, 
be allowed to return. Samijan was only ten years old, and he 
could not understand why, since Jamojaja's disappearance, he 
was being cared for with such respect and reverence, and why 
a bodyguard of slaves must always go with him, whenever he 
left the palace grounds, to carry his amulets. 

"I am no prince/' he said in astonishment. 

"You are indeed a prince," his mother would tell him over 
and over again. "You are now the first son of the king; you are 
the heir to the throne!" 

One day, when his mother had said this to him again, Sami- 
jan became very angry. He stamped his little feet and shrieked, 
"If s not true! I am not the heir to the throne! That is my 
brother! He must come back! I will go to find him myself." 

Why the Waringen Tree Is Holy 89 

And not long after that they missed little Samijan, and no 
matter where they searched for him, they could not find him. 

Forty days and forty nights the slaves searched the forests 
and the mountains, the ravines and the grottos. They waded 
through rivers and streams, but they could find no trace of the 
little boy. 

And he was never found. For when his longing for his lost 
brother grew too strong for him, Samijan cried to the gods to 
change him into a bird so that he could fly over the country- 
side, over mountains and seas and thick forests, to look for 
Jamojaja. And the gods heard his prayer and changed him into 
a beautiful bird. Now Samijan was happy. He could fly wher- 
ever he wished, from north to south, and from east to west. 
But wherever he flew, he could not find Jamojaja, his exiled 

So it was that he came one day to the waringen tree and the 
softly murmuring, crystal-clear spring. And he drank of the 
spring water and sat down on one of the branches of the 
waringen and began to cry sadly, "Kakagatot, kakagatot!" (I 
am looking for my brother.) 

He did not hear how the leaves of the waringen above him 
whispered, "I am your brother." Nor did he hear the crystal 
waters of the spring murmuring, "You are with your brother/ 7 

And because he could not understand the language that the 
waringen tree and the spring spoke to him, the little bird flew 
away, sadder than before, still crying, "Kakagatot, kakagatot!" 
Even now, after centuries and centuries, the bird cries its sor- 
rowful, "Kakagatot, kakagatot!" And even now he does not 
hear the leaves of the holy waringen tree answering him com- 
fortingly, "I am your brother! I am your brother!" 


IN THE DAYS when Mohammed was living on the earth as an 
ordinary mortal, he often angered his father-in-law by his 
prophecies and his wonderful deeds. The old man hated Mo- 
hammed, and one day he roused the people against the 
prophet. They made life so miserable for him that finally Mo- 
hammed fled the city. 

Unfortunately, some wicked people saw him flee. They im- 
mediately told Mohammed's father-in-law, who ordered them 
to follow the prophet and bring him back. "And if he refuses 
to return with you, kill him/ 7 the old man said. 

The wicked men went in search of Mohammed who, in 
his despair, had taken the wrong road a lonely road where no 
tree grew, where no house stood, and where there was not even 
any underbrush in which he could hide himself. He looked 
about him anxiously, and then he saw his pursuers who were 
coming closer and closer. This made Mohammed even more 
anxious, and he asked Allah to help him. 

And Allah did help him, for all at once the prophet noticed 
a grotto that lay just a few steps ahead. He ran to it; but he 
discovered that the opening in the cave was so narrow that a 
man could not crawl through it. But again Allah helped him 

by widening the opening sufficiently to enable Mohammed to 
creep through it and hide himself from his pursuers. 

Now in this cave there lived a great many insects, among 
them a giant scorpion and a great spider with a cross on its 
back. The spider felt kindly toward people, but the scorpion 
hated everything that was called "man." When he saw Mo- 
hammed enter the cave, he became angry and flung his 
pointed tail so hard against the walls of the cave that all the 
other insects crept back into their holes and crannies in fright. 

And when he saw that Mohammed did not fear him, the 
scorpion was even more furious. He crept up to him, and tried 
to chase Mohammed away with his venomous stings. 

But before he could attack the prophet, the spider came out 
of her cranny, faced the scorpion, and asked him, "What are 
you doing? Why don't you leave the poor man in peace? Do 
you think he has hunted out a hiding place for pleasure?" 

"I suffer no man in our house/ 7 said the scorpion angrily, 


and he struck out even harder with his tail. "Man doesn't be- 
long in a grotto; he belongs on the earth, and he should not 
live, as we do, in holes and cracks. He must go; I insist on it!" 

The scorpion's attitude toward the prophet angered the 
spider. She placed herself in front of the scorpion and spoke 
threateningly, "Don't touch him, or I will weave such a strong, 
thick web around you that you'll never be able to get out 
of it!" 

While the spider was saying this to the scorpion, Moham- 
med was listening at the opening of the cave for the footsteps 
of his pursuers. His worry showed on his face, and the spider 
noticed it and said, "Why are you afraid, man? You have noth- 
ing more to fear from the scorpion. If he tries to sting you, I 
will weave him fast in my strong web/ 7 

"I fear the people who are following me much more than I 
fear the sting of the scorpion/' said Mohammed. "If they find 
me here in this cave, they will kill me." 

"They will never find you here/' the spider replied. She 
went to the opening of the cave and wove a great, strong web, 
and when it was done, she sat down in the center of it 

Mohammed was not listening to what the spider said. He 
was listening to the footsteps of his pursuers coming closer and 
closer, and now he heard their voices. 

"I clearly saw him go into that cave," said the first voice. 
"He must have hidden himself here. Come, let us search for 
him. You Achmed," the voice continued, "are the smallest of 
us. You will creep through the opening and drag Mohammed 

"Stupid one!" cried Achmed. "How can he have entered 
the cave without chasing away this spider, sitting in the mid- 
dle of her web? He would have had to destroy the web itself!" 

"Achmed is right," said another voice. "Mohammed cannot 

Mohammed and the Spider 93 

be hidden in this grotto. Come, men, let us go on. We shall 
find him somewhere." 

In a little while Mohammed knew that the men had gone 
on. And now for the first time he saw the spider, sitting in the 
middle of her web, and realized what she had done for him. 

Later, much later, he told his friends of his wonderful es- 
cape. And ever since that time no follower of the prophet ever 
kills a spider, because it was a spider that once saved the life of 


IN THE NORTHEASTERN PART of the Tengger mountains lies the 
Lake of Grati, the so-called Crocodile Lake. 

The lake got its name from the many crocodiles which, cen- 
turies and centuries ago, mysteriously appeared in its waters; 
then, after living there a while, they as mysteriously disap- 
peared, leaving in their stead the ikan leleh, a long, dark-grey 
fish something like an eel. These fish were really the reason 
why the crocodiles are now the enemies of man. How this 
came about is told in the following legend: 

Long, long ago, when the villagers were simple, kindly folk, 
the crocodiles that lived in the Lake of Grati were on friendly 
terms with the people of the neighborhood. 

The oldest pair of crocodiles, who were called Kyai and Nyai 
Buaja, were the great-great-great-great-great-grandparents of 
the youngest crocodiles. Because they were so old, the gods 
had given Kyai and Nyai Buaja the power to change them- 
selves, as soon as twilight fell, into human beings; but as soon 
as day broke they had to become crocodiles again. 

Now Kyai and Nyai Buaja owned a gamelan which they had 
safely hidden away in their home on the bottom of the lake. 
This gamelan, which made very beautiful music, was always 


Why the Crocodile Hates Man 95 

being borrowed by the villagers whenever they had a marriage 
or a harvest feast to celebrate. In order to get in the good 
graces of the old crocodiles, those who wanted to hold a feast 
would send a little raft out on the water to the place where 
Kyai and Nyai Buaja came to the surface every day. On the 
raft would be burning incense and a fine duck or perhaps a 
chicken. When the old pair appeared, the people would cry, 
"Kyai and Nyai Buaja, my daughter is going to be married," 
or "We are going to have a harvest feast; our rice is ripe. May 
we please borrow your gamelan? And we hope you will come 
to the feast, too/' 

When the people had said this, the two crocodiles would 
dive down to the depths of the lake, and it wasn't long before 
the raft, with the gamelan on it, would reappear on the shore. 

And, shortly before midnight on the evenings when the 
celebrations were being held and the soft, lovely music of the 
gamelan was drifting over the lake, Kyai and Nyai Buaja would 
appear in their human forms and would take part in the fes- 
tivities. They would stay until just an hour before sunrise, be- 
cause they were afraid that if they stayed longer and were 
turned back into their crocodile shapes, they would frighten 
the people, and they didn't want that to happen. 

This went on for many years. The people often asked for the 
loan of the gamelan, and as often as they asked for it they 
would put a duck or a chicken or a little wild pig or perhaps 
a deer on the raft, in return. All this, of course, made the croco- 
diles feel more and more friendly toward the villagers. 

But everything was changed when a woman called Leleh 
came to live in a nearby village. 

Leleh was a wicked woman. People said that she was a witch, 
and that her charms could call forth the evil spirits, and that 
was why she had been banished from the village where she was 


born. They even said that she knew a charm that could make 
her turn into a tiger, but this was not true. She was, however, a 
sly and cunning woman, and a thief. She stole the chickens 
and the eggs of the villagers, and she chased away the wild 
ducks that came to the shores of the lake to lay their eggs. 
And, what was worst of all, she plagued the crocodiles. 

She grew so daring in her plaguing that one day she tied a 
fat duck to the end of a rope and put it on the raft, and then 
cried in a loud voice, "Kyai and Nyai Buaja, I'm sending you 
something delicious for your meal. Come up and see what it 
is; it's all ready for you on the raft!" 

The two big heads of the old crocodiles had hardly appeared 
on the surface of the water, and they had hardly looked 
around with their knowing eyes, before the wicked Leleh 
pulled the little rope that was attached to the leg of the duck 
and drew it back to the shore. And she cried tauntingly, "I, 
too, like a tasty tidbit! Find something else for yourselves, old 
ones!" And thereupon she built a fire, roasted the duck to a 
delicate brown, and sat down and ate every last crumb of it. 

After this had happened again and again, the old crocodiles 
began to tire of it. They said nothing to anyone, neither to 
Leleh herself nor to the villagers, but they decided between 
themselves that Leleh must be punished and soon. So the 
next time she put a duck on the raft and called out, 'Tm send- 
ing you a delicious morsel for your meal, old ones!" Kyai 
Buaja called back, "Send the raft a little nearer, Leleh. My 
wife is sick and I cannot leave her." 

Leleh pushed the raft a little farther, but at the same time 
she pulled the duck off. And no sooner had she done this than 
from all sides the crocodiles shot out of the water and, led by 
Kyai Buaja himself, dragged Leleh with them down to the 

depths of the lake. There Kyai changed her into a fish which 
he called the leleh fish, or ikan leleh. 

He told her that from now on she would have to take care 
of all his great-great-great-grandchildren, the young crocodiles. 
But when she tried to do this, the young crocodiles bit her so 
fiercely that her fins became weak (and from that time to this 
the leleh fish has been a weak-finned fish) . She was forbidden 
ever to leave the lake again. She could not have done so any- 
how, because her many descendants put her in a narrow cleft 
in the rocks and forced her to stay there. There were so many 
of these fish, her descendants, that soon there were more leleh 
fish than crocodiles. Kyai and Nyai Buaja finally had to call on 
the villagers to help them. 

The villagers fished day and night for the wicked lelehs and 
they caught them by the netfuls. But the more they caught, 
the more there were left in the lake. 

Kyai and Nyai Buaja thought that the villagers were in 
league with the fish and merely caught them and then threw 
them back into the lake. And so they and all the other croco- 


diles became angry with people. They became so angry that 
they swore eternal enmity. Kyai Buaja himself said that when- 
ever he met a human being he would kill him immediately. 
And one day, when the water in the lake was higher than usual, 
Kyai and Nyai Buaja and all the other crocodiles left the place 
where they had lived so happily before the coming of Leleh. 
They left the lake in such a mysterious manner that none of 
the village people noticed their going. They only knew that 
the next day ? when they went down to the lake and called, the 
crocodiles were gone. And they never came back. 


THOUGH TIGERS PROWL the jungles of Java and Sumatra and 
many other islands of Indonesia, there are none whatever in 
the forests of Borneo. An old folk story tells the reason for this. 

It seems that the Rajah of All the Tigers, who lived on Java, 
found that food was getting so scarce that he and his subjects 
were threatened with starvation. So he decided that he would 
send word to the inhabitants of Borneo that they must send 
him food, or he would come with his army and conquer the 

He selected three messengers to carry his ultimatum to 
Borneo, and they traveled over the sea and came to the island, 
weary and hot. They searched everywhere for the rajah of 
Borneo but could not find him. When they were about to 
give up, they met a tiny mouse-deer. 

"Where is your rajah?" the tigers demanded. 'We have an 
important message to deliver to him/' 

"He is hunting/' the mouse-deer replied. "What is your im- 
portant message?" 

"We bring word from our rajah that your ruler must sur- 



render. Take us to your rajah so that we can deliver our mes- 

The mouse-deer thought quickly. "Would it not be better 
if you rested here in the shade, after your long journey, and 
let me carry the message for you? I promise to find the rajah 
and deliver your message promptly, and I will bring you his 

The messengers looked at one another and decided, since it 
was so hot and they were so tired, to let the mouse-deer do as 
he suggested. 

"Very well/' said the spokesman, "but be quick about it. 
Go and tell him that the Rajah of All the Tigers demands 
food, in great quantities which we shall specify. It must be 
given to us at once or our rajah will send his army to destroy 
you. What is more/' he said, stepping forward and nearly 
knocking down the tiny mouse-deer, "give him this, as a token 
of our rajah's might/ 7 He drew out a tiger's whisker and gave 
it to the mouse-deer. 

"This is from the royal face," he said importantly. "The 
rajah himself plucked it from his whiskers, to show how strong 
he is/' 

The mouse-deer took the royal whisker and held it away 
from him. "It is very large," he said, in a tiny voice. "Your 
rajah must be strong and fierce." 

"Begone!" said the messenger imperiously. "We will wait 
here . . . but not too long." 

The mouse-deer turned and fled. His thoughts raced as he 
ran. If the Rajah of All the Tigers in Java needed food he must 
be desperate for meat. "I am meat/' thought the little mouse- 
deer, "and so are all the creatures on Borneo. If the Rajah of 
All the Tigers sends an army he will destroy us ... and then 
he will remain in Borneo. I must think!" 

He ran through the woods and leaped the streams. Suddenly 
there was a rustling sound in the leaves and his quick eyes 
spied his friend the porcupine. 

The porcupine peered up at him. "What is your hurry, 
kanchil?" he asked. "It is too hot to run so fast/' 

"I am worried . . . but seeing you has solved my problem. 
Give me one of your quills* friend, and save Borneo for all 
of us!" 

"I'll gladly give you a quill/' said the porcupine. "Surely I 
have enough and to spare at least one for my good friend the 
mouse-deer. But can't you tell me why you need it?" 

"Later/' said the mouse-deer. "You are a good friend indeed. 
You have saved our country." 

And off he bounded, bearing the quill in his teeth. 

He ran as fast as he could back to the spot where he had left 


the tigers. They were pacing back and forth, looking annoyed 
and fierce. 

"Well, you've been gone a long time!" the oldest one cried 

"I had to find our rajah/' said the mouse-deer breathlessly. 
"And I had to wait till he woke from his nap after his hunting. 
Then I had to wait for an audience. And then I had to wait for 
his answer/ 7 

"Well, what is it?" the messengers demanded. "Did you tell 
him what our rajah said?" 

"Word for word, as you told it to me," the mouse-deer an- 
swered. "I told him that your rajah demanded food at once, 
and surrender, or he would come with his great army and de- 
stroy us." 

"Yes, yes. And he said . . . ?" 

The mouse-deer replied, "He said, 'Very well, let the Rajah 
of All the Tigers in Java come and fight us. He will find that 
we can fight better than he. In fact/ he said, 'I am weary of 
peace and would welcome a battle in which we could prove 
our might once more/ " 

"Did you give him the whisker from the royal face?" the 
oldest tiger asked. 

"I gave it to him/' the mouse-deer replied. "And do you see 
this whisker I hold in my teeth?" 

"Is that a whisker?" the tigers asked. "It is larger than you 
are, longer by a foot, and thicker than your leg. 7 ' 

"It is from the royal face of our rajah," the mouse-deer said. 
He took the quill from his teeth and handed it to the oldest 
messenger. "Fed it; see how thick it is. Our rajah plucked it 
from his face and said that I was to give it to you to take to 
your rajah." 

Why There Are No Tigers in Borneo 103 

"Nothing more?" the messengers asked, turning pale. 

"Nothing more. . . . Oh, you are going?" 

The oldest tiger said hurriedly, 'We must return at once. 
Our rajah waits for your rajah's answer/' 

"Of course. And it is hot here, and you have a long way to 
go. Be sure to take good care of the whisker . . . although, if 
need be, our rajah can always send another one/' 

The oldest tiger took the big quill carefully in his paws, and 
all the messengers started back to Java. They crossed the land 
and then the water and then the land again, and came at last 
to the spot where their rajah waited impatiently. 

"You have been gone far too long/' the rajah rumbled in 
his throat. "What word do you bring?" 

The messengers trembled at the terrible tone of his voice, 
thinking of the message they had to deliver. They looked to 
the oldest one, and he swallowed hard, and said, "Oh mighty 
one, the miserable rajah of Borneo said he would welcome war 
and sent you this." 

He stepped forward fearfully and held out the big, thick 
quill of the porcupine. "It comes from his royal face/' he 

The Rajah of All the Tigers in Java gazed at it long and 
hard, stroking his own whiskers the while. He could not help 
feeling the difference. He said nothing for a long time. 

Then he looked blandly at the trembling messengers. "I 
have decided," he said, "that it would be better to demand 
food of the elephants of Sumatra/' 

Whether the elephants of Sumatra ever sent the food the 
story does not tell, but it is a fact that from that day to this 
there have been no tigers in Borneo. 


IN THE SOUTHERN PART of the province of Bantam lies the 
mountain range called the Kendang, where the Baduwi tribe 
settled long, long ago and lived far away from other people. 
The Baduwis still practiced the religion of their forefathers 
and were not yet followers of Mohammed. The Baduwis were 
brave and honest, for if they did anything wicked they knew 
that they would never reach the White Place, where all those 
who died went to find blessed rest and eternal happiness. 

Now the White Place, according to the Baduwis, did not 
lie under the earth, nor was it in the heavens. It was not far 
from their own village, and was a place with many terraces 
where basalt stones of all sizes and shapes were to be found. 
These stones lay everywhere, even in the middle of the dense 
forest where the White Place was. In these stones, the Badu- 
wis saw their gods, and so they worshipped and prayed to 
them, and brought offerings of rice and flowers there. 

It seldom happened that a Baduwi did anything wrong in 
the eyes of his tribesmen. But if such a thing did happen, his 
soul did not reach the holy White Place, but was taken by the 
fire-spirits to the group of little volcanoes which lies in the 


northern part of Bantam, where the highest mountain is 
called the Karang. 

These volcanoes were not always there. How they came into 
being is told in this legend. 

Hanomat was the king of the monkeys and a son of the 
great wind-god. Sometimes he wandered over the earth in the 
form of an orangutan, and one day he came to visit his peo- 
ple, the monkeys. He came with two great bags of sand slung 
over his shoulder, for he wanted the monkeys to help him 
build two little islands in the straits of Sunda. But when he 
came to the place where the monkeys lived, very tired from 
carrying his heavy load, he saw, to his surprise, that one of the 
gods had been there before him and had already built three 
little islands Krakatau, Besi, and Dwars-in-den-weg. Hanomat 
was so angry about this that he tore his bags to pieces, and the 
sand ran out in great waves. The waves of sand piled up 
higher and higher, until they formed two big mountains. 

One of these mountains Hanomat called the Karang and 


the other he called Pulosari. When Pulosari had reached the 
height of an ordinary mountain it stayed as it was. But the 
Karang grew and grew until it was so high that its tip reached 
into the heavens. 

When the monkeys saw this they thanked their king, Hano- 
mat ? because they thought that he had purposely made the 
Karang so high to enable them to climb up to the stars. 

The mountain was hardly finished before a whole colony of 
monkeys climbed to the top and began to tease the stars. Yes, 
finally they became so impudent that they actually began to 
bite the little stars! 

The gods in their heaven saw this, and one evening Vishnu 
said to Brahma, "Look, O Creator, how those naughty chil- 
dren of Hanomat's are teasing the little stars. Shouldn't we 
punish them for this?" 

But Brahma answered, "My dear Vishnu, they will soon be 
tired of their teasing. Let us watch a little longer and see how 
it goes/' 

So the gods did not punish the monkeys just then. But one 
evening, when one of the biggest monkeys began to snap at 
the evening star, and the star shrank behind a cloud in terror, 
Vishnu said to Brahma, "Look, O great one! Must this go on 
night after night? Cannot you, who are so mighty, forbid 
these animals to do what they are doing?" 

And Brahma, the kind-hearted Creator, answered, "The eve- 
ning star is now beyond their reach. The monkeys cannot do 
much more harm tonight. Let us therefore wait till morning/' 

But the following morning, when day began to break and 
the morning star was shining beautifully in the heavens, 
Brahma himself looked out of the gods' heaven and saw how 
some of the monkeys were beginning to bite that lovely, bril- 
liant star. The star looked for a cloud where she could hide 

The Legend of the Karang 107 

herself, but she found none, and in terror of the teasing ani- 
mals she called out, "Great Brahma, if this teasing doesn't 
stop soon, I will not shine in the sky any more, and neither 
will any of the other stars!" 

When the evening star and all the other stars, big and little, 
heard the morning star say this to Brahma, they, too, cried, 
"No, no ? great, mighty Brahma, we will not shine in the sky 
any more, if this teasing by the monkeys does not stop!" 

So Brahma called to him the favorite of the gods, Lurah 
Dalam, who by day ruled over the kingdom of Bantam, and 
ordered him to send Hanomat to him immediately. 

"Hanomat," Lurah Dalam said, when he had found him, 
"Brahma has commanded me to send you immediately to the 
gods' heaven/' 

"What must I do in the gods' heaven?" asked Hanomat 

"I think that Brahma wants to give you one of the great 
scissors to snip off a piece of the mountain so that the monkeys 
can no longer climb up to the stars/' said Lurah Dalam. 

"Do you mean to say that I must cut off a piece of my beau- 
tiful mountain?" Hanomat cried. "And where will the piece 

"I think it will go into the sea," answered Lurah Dalam. 

"What, must I churn up the sea with my mountaintop?" 
the king of the monkeys cried in anger. 'Tell Brahma that if 
he wants to do that, he can use the three mountains that the 
gods put down in the Sunda Straits." 

When he heard this impertinent language, Lurah Dalam 
became angry, too. "Do you mean to say," he cried, "that you 
dare tell Brahma what he should do and what he should not 
do? Go immediately to the gods' heaven, I tell you, and get 
the big scissors!" 

"I don't want a piece of my big, beautiful mountain snipped 


off." Hanomat mumbled. "My mountain is going to stay as 
it is. . . ." 

"Do you refuse to do what Brahma orders?" asked Lurah 
Dalam in a terrible voice. "Get the scissors immediately, or I 
will banish you to the realm of the ghosts." 

Then Hanomat knew that, whether he wanted to or not, he 
must go to the gods' heaven. Brahma gave him the scissors and 
said, "Snip off a third of the Karang, so that none of the mon- 
keys can tease the stars any more." 

"And what shall I do with the snipped-off piece, O mighty 
Brahma?" asked Hanomat. 

"First snip it off," said Brahma. "The rest will take care of 

With the great scissors in his hands, Hanomat returned to 
the earth. Then he climbed to the top of the Karang and 
snipped off a third of the mountain. With a thundering noise, 
the snipped-off part fell, and formed, by Brahma's will, a group 
of smaller volcanoes. And to these volcanoes go the souls of 
those Baduwis who have done something wicked in their lives* 


A YOUNG MAN whose name was Awang Durahman lived in a 
small village near a great forest. He liked nothing better than 
to wander in the woods, looking for game, and dreaming. 

One day, when the sun was hot, he took his spear and went 
into the forest where it was cool and quiet. 

As he walked he talked to himself: 

'Took at me! I am the mightiest hunter in the land! No 
animal can hear me coming, for I walk so softly!" 

With that he practically stumbled upon a small deer which 
lay in the shadows, sound asleep. 

Awang looked down at the deer. "It is too defenseless to 
kill. I will take out my tobacco and my pipe and smoke a bit" 

He filled his pipe and hung his tobacco pouch on the antlers 
of the sleeping deer. Then he leaned against a tree, with his 
spear beside him, and thought, "This deer, when I kill it, will 
make a great deal of meat. I will have plenty for my mother, 
my father, and myself. I will sell the rest and have much 
money. What shall I do with the money?" 

He thought a while longer, and smiled to himself. 

, I will buy some ducks, of course! There will be so 



many ducks that they will make a loud noise in the village and 
eat all the grain. People will be angry and will ask whose ducks 
they are. My mother will say, They belong to Awang Durah- 
man/ and people wfll say, 'He must be a rich man to have so 
many ducks/ " 

Awang went on daydreaming. "Then I will sell the ducks 
and buy some goats. There will be many goats and they will 
eat the crops in the field. 'Whose goats are these?' people will 
ask, and my mother will say, They are Awang Durahman's/ 
Then the people will cry, 'He must be rich to have so many 
goats/ " 

He thought a while. "After a time I will sell the goats, I 
think, and buy some buffaloes. They will be big and strong; 
they will work my fields for me. When I milk them, they will 
give much milk, and people will say, 'Whose buffaloes are 
these?' My mother will answer, "They are Awang Durahman's 
buffaloes/ and people will cry, 'He must be very rich to have so 
many buffaloes that give so much milk/ " 

A smile spread across Awang's face as he leaned against the 
tree and he sucked happily on his pipe and watched the smoke 
from it spiral into the quiet air. 

"But after a time I will sell the buffaloes and buy some 
elephants. They will be strongso strong that they will knock 
down the bamboo houses of my neighbors and trample their 
fields and wade in the stream. And people will cry, 'Whose 
elephants are these that have come to our village?' My mother 
will say, 'Do you not know that they belong to my son, Awang 
Durahman?' and the villagers will cry, 'But he must be enor- 
mously rich to have so many elephants!' " 

Awang blew another puff of smoke and waited till it had 
vanished toward the sky just barely visible between the tree- 

"Then, I think, I will sell my elephants to the Rajah. He 
will give me his daughter in marriage, and with her I will sail 
to distant islands to Java and Bali and Borneo and Amboina 
and Celebes. In my fine ship I will sail wherever I please, with 
my beautiful young wife, the Rajah's daughter, beside me/' 

In the waving of the leaves, he saw the motion of the waves 
and his body swayed as with the motion of a boat. He squinted 
his eyes, looking toward far horizons. 

"With my beautiful wife beside me," he repeated, "I will 
sit on the deck, while my servants fan me with palm fronds 
and bring me cooling drinks. I will play games while my wife 
sleeps and my child Hassan crawls about the deck." 

He could see Hassan's small brown body crawling over the 
sloping deck. He could feel the movement of the ship, rising, 
falling, rising 

"Heh!" he cried loudly, and leaped into the air. "Hassan has 


fallen into the sea! Hassan, my child, has fallen into the sea! 
Save him, you, Achmed, you, Kerto!" 

His spear fell to the ground and the deer sprang up in fright, 
and darted into the deep forest, the tobacco pouch still dan- 
gling from its antlers. 

Awang shook his head and rubbed a hand across his eyes. 
He picked up his spear and walked slowly down the forest 

"Aid" he moaned sadly. "I was rich and now I am poor! 
Wait till I come upon that wretched deer! He has made off 
with my ship and my wife and my child and my tobacco 
pouch! Aie, Ale!" 

It was cool in the forest, and sweet-smelling and quiet. The 
path was soft under his feet, the sun, through the tall trees, 
made a golden light between the shadows. 

Awang walked in happy silence for a while. The wind began 
to rise. It sang a song to him. He listened, stopping in his walk. 

"What is it the wind says?" he asked himself, and listened 
again. A smile broke over his face. "The wind says, 'Whose 
tobacco pouch is this?' and the wind answers itself, 'Why, it 
is the pouch of Awang Durahman, the mighty hunter!' " 


IN THE OLDEN DAYS, when the tigers still lived in peace with 
other animals, the crow was called "The Bird of Paradise." Her 
feathers were of purest white; but since then she has lost these 
beautiful white feathers and in their place wears black ones. 
How this came about is told in a very old tale: 

When Allah had shaped the fishes, the birds, and the four- 
footed beasts, he called the white crow to him and said, "Bird 
of Paradise, you are large and handsome, you are strong and 
swift; therefore you shall be my messenger." 

The crow bowed her sleek white head and said, "Great 
Allah, I will be your messenger. Tell me what you wish me 
to do/ 7 

Allah showed the white crow a bit of clay, and said, "From 
this clay I am going to knead a man." 

So Allah kneaded a man, and when he had laid the figure 
near him on the ground he called the animals to admire it. 

All of them came the birds, the four-footed beasts, and the 
fishes. All of them looked on the man made of clay that lay 
motionless on the ground. And when Allah asked, "Well, how 
do you like this man?" the fishes began by saying, "It's a very, 
very strange thing!" 


"Is that a man?' 9 cried the birds in amazement. "It's noth- 
ing but a piece of clay!" 

"Yes, that's all it is just a piece of clay!" the four-footed 
beasts cried, too. 

"And you, my messenger, what do you think of this man?" 
Allah asked the white crow. 

"I say that it has a wonderful shape," answered the crow, 
"but . . ." 

"What else do you want to say?" asked Allah. 

"Only this: there is no life in the man," the crow said at 

"There shall indeed be life in the man," Allah said then. 
"And I not only wish to give him life, I want to make him 
immortal. Therefore I am sending you, my messenger, this 
very day to bring me the life-water from the fountain of life, 
that shall make man immortal." 

"And in what shall I fetch the water?" asked the white 
crow. "Will one beak-full be enough to make the man im- 

"No," Allah replied. "You must fetch the water in the big 
vessel that you will find beside the fountain of life. And re- 
member this: do not let any other animal drink of the water, 
because I want man alone to be immortal. Promise me that 
you will not drink any of it, either." 

"I promise," said the white crow, and she flew away to fetch 
the life-giving water. The fountain of life was far away, and the 
white crow became tired and thirsty. 

After she filled the vessel and had flown part of the way 
back, she had a great desire to drink just a few drops of the 
water. "Allah will never be able to see that there are a few 
drops missing," she reasoned to herself. "And why shouldn't I 

slake my thirst with the water? Then I shall be immortal, 

So thought the white crow. And the more she thought 
about it, the more she longed for immortality. Finally she 
drank a few drops . . . and then a few more . . . and, at last, 
she had almost emptied the vessel. 

"Is that the vessel full of life-water that you were to bring 
me?" asked Allah, when he saw the few drops that still re- 
mained in it. "With these few drops I can give man life, 
but I cannot make him immortal. Why were you unable to 
fill the vessel, my messenger?" 

"There was no more life-water in the fountain/' lied the 
white crow. 

At that moment a magpie, whose feathers also were a beau- 


tiful white, flew to Allah, and cried, "The white crow lies, 
Lord; she herself drank of the life-water that was in the jar. I 
sat in a tree along the way and I saw her drinking/' 

When Allah heard this, he was so angry at the white crow 
that he took her beautiful white feathers from her and in place 
of them gave her black ones. 

And when the black-feathered crow stood before him with 
her head bowed in shame, Allah spoke to her and to the mag- 
pie, "I expel you both from Paradise. You, crow, because you 
drank the life-water and then lied about it. And you, magpie, 
because you were a spy and a talebearer, I will take away half 
of your white feathers and, even as the crow, you shall have 
black ones in their place!" 

That is why the magpie has black-and-white feathers, and 
the crow is entirely black. 

But whether or not the life-water made the crow immortal 
the story does not tell. 


ON THE MOSS-GROWN SHORES of a little inland sea stood the 
huts of men who made their living by gathering edible birds'- 
nests. In one of these huts lived Pale Miam, one of the most 
fearless gatherers, with his wife and little son. Kertadikrama 
was the boy's name. But because his mother found this name 
somewhat long for so small a boy, she, and everyone else in 
the village, called him Kerta. 

When the boy was almost ten years old and the season for 
gathering the nests came again, Pak Miam decided to take his 
son with him to the cliffs of Karang-Bolong where the nests 
were found. 

Ma Kerta, the little boy's mother, was very frightened when 
she heard this. But Pak Miam quieted her fears by saying that 
he would not let their son climb down the cliffs. Kerta would 
only have to carry the offering of food for the queen, Ratu 
Loro Kidul, and then wait on the top of the cliff until his 
father told him he might return home. 

It was on a Thursday, and still very early in the morning, 
when the father and son started for the cliffs. Like all the men 
who gathered birds'-nests, they had left home without eating. 
For it was understood that, on the first day of the gathering, 



the offering of food to the Queen of the South Sea must be 
placed on the white mat that lay on the place of sacrifice in 
the palm forest before anyone ate his own food. 

Pak Miam had fasted through this first day many and many 
a time. But Kerta was accustomed to a meal of rice cakes 
every morning as soon as he waked, and he did not like this 
fasting. He walked behind his father with a sad little face and 
whined without ceasing. 

"Father, I am so hungry! When may I have some of the 
good things that I am carrying in this bag? Father, I am so 
hungry! When may I have something to eat?" 

At first his father ignored him, but Kerta kept on crying. 
At last Pak Miam said, "Kerta, neither you nor I may eat the 
good things we are carrying with us. If we do, the queen will 
punish us in a terrible manner/' 

"How?" Kerta asked, his tears forgotten for the moment. 

"I don't know. But we must not let it happen. The queen 
demands her sacrifice." 

"Why is she so angry, Father?" Kerta asked curiously. 

"She was not always so, they say. Once she was a lovely 
young princess, but she was banished from her father's king- 
dom by his jealous second wife, and was forced to wander 
over the countryside. Wlien she became ill no one would take 
care of her but an old hermit. And when her illness grew too 
evil she was drawn into the sea. There she reigns, but she is 
angry at her fate and anyone who comes near her abode must 
placate her with food or offerings." 

"Still, I am hungry, Father." 

"When you have placed the offering on the white mat in 
the palm forest, we will both go and get something to eat. The 
warong-men will be there with their little stoves on which 
they cook delicious things, and you may choose whatever you 

The Children s Sea 119 

like, if youll stop complaining and act like a big boy. It won't 
be long now/' 

Kerta was cheered by the prospect of eating very soon, and 
stopped his crying to walk sedately behind his father. Just the 
same, his hunger grew greater and greater, and finally he 
couldn't stand it any longer. 

His little brown fingers reached inside the bag and pulled 
out a bit of tender chicken. It vanished between his white 
teeth. Then his exploring fingers found a piece of fish, baked 
to an appetizing brown. Then, after that, he discovered some 
rice which had been tinted yellow. He sampled that, too. 
And his searching fingers kept finding other tidbits and still 
others . . . until at last his stomach was heavy and the bag 
was very light. 

Kerta's father could not see what was happening behind 
his back. When they came to the palm forest, Pak Miam 
turned to his son and said, "Take the offering out of the bag, 
Kerta, and carry it to the place of sacrifice. You will see it soon 
enough. Under a roof of palm leaves there will be a white mat 
and nearby will stand the priests who will take the offering 
from you and place it on the mat with the others/' 

"Yes, Father/' 

"Come back quickly then, and you may choose whatever 
you like from the little stoves of the warong-men." 

Kerta hurried to the place of sacrifice. All kinds of mar- 
velous food lay on the white mat. The priests took his offering 
and placed it beside the handsome offerings of some of the 
other nest-gatherers, and when it was put down it looked even 
smaller than it was. But the priests asked nothing, and Kerta 
said nothing. He was overjoyed that everything had gone so 
well for him, and ran back to the warongs. But he had eaten 
so much that nothing appealed to him. Even so, he chose a 


number of things and stowed them away in his headcloth. 
Then he accompanied his father to the cliffs and watched 
while Pak Miam and the other men lowered themselves cau- 
tiously on the swaying ladders that were hung over the steep 

While his father was gathering the nests, Kerta wandered 
aimlessly through the palm forest. At last, he found himself 
getting very tired, so he lay down between two tall trees and 
soon fell asleep. He woke only when one of the men came by 
and shook him by the arm. "Heh, young one, get up. The sun 
has almost set" 

Kerta rubbed his eyes. He was still so sleepy that he thought 
the man who had waked him was his father. "Is it as late as 
that, Father?" 

"I am not your father/' the man said. "He must have gone 
on with the others. Get up and run home quickly. Don't you 
hear how the waves are beating against the rocks? Tonight it 
will be even worse, when the god of storms and hurricanes 
gets angrier/' 

It had grown quite dark and the storm was sweeping over 
the palm-roofed huts, when Kerta reached home panting and 

"Where is your father?" asked his mother. 

"The man who woke me up said thai Father must have 
gone home with the other men," Kerta replied. 

"Then he will surely come soon," said Ma Kerta. But Pak 
Miam did not come. Yet Ma Kerta was not afraid. "No harm 
can befall your father/' she said as the evening wore on. "For 
the offering that I prepared for Ratu Loro Kidul was so big 
and so fine that the queen will feel kindly toward him." 

"And if the offering was very, very small, Mother what 
could happen to Father, then?" asked Kerta. 

The Children s Sea 121 

"Then the queen of the South Sea would be very angry 
with your father/' the woman answered. "And she would drag 
him down to the deep caverns and . . ." 

But at that the boy began to cry and sob. And he told his 
mother how he had eaten most of the offering which had 
been meant for the queen. 

His mother was almost crazed with grief when she heard 
this, and in her despair she called in her neighbors and urged 
them to go and search for Pak Miam. 

But none of the men dared trust himself on the cliffs on 
such a stormy night. They promised instead that as soon as it 
was day they would go and search for her husband. Ma Kerta 
did not sleep all night. Sitting on her sleeping mat she wept 
for her husband. 

Day was just breaking when Kerta awoke with a loud 
scream. And when he saw how sad his mother was he said, 
"Listen, Mother. It is my fault that Father did not come back, 
for I ate the offering. And so I will go and search for him, I 
promised that I would in a dream I had a while ago/ 7 

"Tell me your dream, Kerta/ 7 said his mother. 

"A very ugly old woman came to me. Her eyes were coals 
of fire. Her hair curled like snakes around her face, and her 
slimy arms tried to grab me. But she could not, because I 
wriggled out of her reach. And that made her angry. She said, 
in a voice that sounded as loud as the thunder of the waves 
on the rocks, 'Kerta, I punished your father because the offer- 
ing he brought me was not big enough. So I snatched him 
while he was busy gathering the birds'-nests and I threw him 
in one of the deepest grottos. There he will remain until he 
dies of hunger and thirst, or until my slaves, the octopi, throt- 
tle him with their long arms. . . / The ugly old woman 
wanted to say more, "but then a beautiful woman came and 


stood beside her, and said to me, in a voice that was as lovely 
as the tones of the gamelan, 'Son of Pak Miam, it is true that 
your father wanders around in one of the deepest grottos. But 
he will not die of starvation. Before the octopi throttle him 
with their long arms you will save him. Listen/ she said, 'at 
the end of this village there is a cave. As soon as day breaks 
you must go there, and you will find someone who will help 
you. . . / And just as she said this, she disappeared. But the 
ugly old woman still stood there, and when she reached out 
her arms again to grab me, I woke up." 

Ma Kerta was sure that this dream must have a special 
meaning, and she called in a neighbor woman who could in- 
terpret dreams. When she heard it she said, "Yes, there is a 
passageway between the grottos of Karang-Bolong and the 
cave. No mortal has ever trod that way, but perhaps Allah 
means your son to be the first to do so. You had better give 
a big feast a sacrifice today and then let Kerta go immedi- 
ately to search for his father/' 

Ma Kerta asked all the men in the village to the feast, and 
then they took Kerta to the entrance to the cave which lay at 
the end of the village, right on the shore of the little inland 

When Kerta entered the cave he found, first, a stone bench, 
and then a burial mound of stones; but he could not find the 
passageway to the grottos of Karang-Bolong. Feeling very sad, 
he sat down on the stone bench to rest. While he sat there, 
trying to decide whether he ought to go home again, he 
looked up and saw in a corner of the cave a strong, clear light. 

In the midst of the light stood a man with a long, white 
beard. Very slowly he came toward Kerta. It was as if he 
floated rather than walked, and when he had come close, he 
laid his hands, which were as transparent as glass and as cold 

as marble, on the boy's head, and said, in a voice that sounded 
like tinkling crystal, "What do you wish, my son?" 

Kerta told how he was searching for his father who was 
held captive in the grottos under the rocks of Karang-Bolong. 
"It is my fault/' he said, "that Ratu Loro Kidul carried my 
father off. I ate the offering that was intended for her." 

"My son, you did something very terrible," the crystal voice 
of the glass-like man tinkled. "I know how terribly she can 
punish. Many, many centuries ago, before Ratu Loro Kidul 
had reigned very long over the realm of the South Sea, I dared 
to live on a tiny, fertile island within her kingdom. One night 
the queen came there. And in one night she made my fruitful 
island into a rock, whereon everything, even my house and all 
that was in it, turned to stone. And when I asked her where 
I should go, now that my very bench and my food and even 
the water in my vessels were turned to stone, she pointed to 
this burial mound and ordered her slaves to bury me under it. 


"But once in every hundred years she permits me to leave 
my grave. Twice may I see the sun come up and go down 
again. Yesterday was exactly one hundred years since I was 
buried here. I saw the sun come up once, and once I saw it 
go down. Not much time is left to me. But I will help you 
to free your father from his prison in the grotto. Follow me, 
my son, and I will show you the way that leads to the caves/" 

The man of glass took Kerta to a narrow opening in the 
rocky wall and said, ''Creep through this opening, as soon as 
I have touched your eyes with my hand." 

Softly the cold, crystal hands glided over Kerta's forehead 
and eyes, and the -boy felt himself shrinking and shrinking. 
He felt his body become smooth; he realized that he was no 
longer standing upright, but was moving forward bent over., 
supported by four little short legs. Kerta had been turned into 
a lizard! 

"Remember that you must be back here before the sun goes 
down. And as soon as you have found your father, call me. 
You have only to cry, 'Help me, holy man!' Now go, rny son, 
and quickly; I have very little time left/' 

Kerta, with his little lizard's body, glided through tihe open- 
ing. It was a very narrow passageway, long and dark, and he 
had to feel his way. Creeping and crawling, he came at last 
to the grottos of Karang-Bolong. 

The surf raged against the high rock walls of the grottos, 
and the storm shrieked and moaned like a band of howling 
ghosts, so angry was the Queen of the South Sea that Kerta 
had dared to enter her realm. She called her slaves, the giant 
octopi, and told them that they should throttle the life out 
of Pak Miam immediately, before Kerta could reach his father 
and free him. And the many-armed monsters reared up from 

The Children's Sea 125 

the bottom of the sea and from behind the great rocks that 
lay on the sea's floor, and groped their way toward Pak Miam 
who was lying in a rocky cleft, exhausted by hunger and fear. 

But Kerta, as a little lizard, crept into the cave and, seeing 
the peril his father was in, cried out with all his might. "Help 
us, holy man!" Hardly had he said the words when the giant 
octopi disappeared in the sea, and Kerta saw that his father, 
too, had suddenly been changed into a lizard. But he lay still 
and unmoving, as if he were dead. 

Kerta was afraid that he and his father would not be able 
to get back to the grotto before the sun went down, and so he 
began to drag his father along with his little pointed lizard's 
mouth. But this did not go easily or quickly, and with all the 
pushing and pulling Kerta was almost exhausted. And he had 
so far to go! 

Only a short part of the distance had been traveled before 
Kerta felt his strength ebbing away. But he would not give 
up. He would push and pull a while, and then he would rest a 
while; but the times when he had to rest grew longer and longer. 
Little by little he dragged his father along, and just as they 
had reached the opening and he had cried once more, with 
the very last of his breath, "Help us, holy man!" he fell down, 

He did not hear the crystal voice of the man of glass tinkle, 
"Where are you? Where are you, my son?" And he did not 
hear his father, who had been turned into his human form 
again by the power of the old man, calling to him, "Where 
are you? Where are you, my Kerta?" He did not hear any- 
thing. But when the sun had gone down, and the man of glass 
had begun his second hundred years' rest in the stone burial 
mound, a little lizard crept slowly through the narrow open- 


ing. He spoke to Pak Miam who was waiting at the entrance 
to the cave, and who was filled with grief because his son 
would have to remain a lizard for a hundred years. 

"Do not feel sad, Father/ 7 he said. "You were punished be- 
cause I ate the offering of food that was meant for Ratu Loro 
Kidul. Sooner or later the angry queen would have demanded 
a sacrifice for that. I shall be that sacrifice, Father/' 

Once more the little lizard gazed with his glittering eyes 
at Pak Miam, and then he crept out of the grotto toward the 
inland sea, and disappeared in its depths. 

And to this day the little inland sea is called the Segara 
Anakan, which means the Children's Sea, because of Kerta, 
who gave himself as a sacrifice to Ratu Loro Kidul. 


PAK SIDIN and his wife Munah and their many children lived 
in a tumble-dawn hut in a little village in the neighborhood 
of Rongkob. Pak Sidin was very poor. But he had not always 
been so poor. He had once had a fine, fertile sawah, and two 
strong buffaloes over which his eldest son Amat watched. 

One day the boy had taken the buffaloes to graze on an 
open place near the broad river that flowed past the hut, when 
a sudden great flood came it was a stormy day in the south- 
west monsoon and there was no time to lead the buffaloes to 
safety. The animals, and little Amat too, were swept into the 
roaring waves, and were never seen again. 

It was this same flood that ruined Pak Sidin's beautiful rice 
field and that caused his house, made of closely woven bam- 
boo and palm leaves, to collapse and be carried down the 

So sadness and poverty had come to the little household. 
Pak Sidin and his family took refuge in the tumble-down hut, 
and it seemed as if misfortune followed him there. Fevers 
sapped his strength, so that he was too weak to work the 
rice field. And he had no money to buy new buffaloes to work 



for him because all his money, along with his other pos- 
sessions, had been swept away in the flood. 

One day, when there was nothing left to Pak Sidin but a 
little rice and grain, and he was wondering what he could do 
to feed his hungry children, he met one of the men who made 
his living gathering birds'-nests, and he told his story to him. 

"Why don't you gather birds'-nests, too?" the man said. 
"We always have work and are well paid/' 

"How can I gather birds'-nests when I have always been a 
farmer?" sighed Pak Sidin. "Climbing up and down those 
steep ladders against those rocky cliffs! And then . . . there's 
Ratu Loro Kidul. . . ." Pak Sidin could scarcely say the 
name out loud, he feared the powerful queen so much. 

But his friend, Suroh, laughed at him and put his mind at 
rest "Come, come," he said, "the queen isn't to be feared that 
much! Prepare a good sacrifice for her tomorrow morning, 
and then the day after tomorrow come with us to the cliffs. 
You can see how the work appeals to you, and if the queen is 
well disposed toward you, you will certainly never have to 
worry about floods any more." 

When Pak Sidin told his wife that he intended to gather 
birds'-nests for a living and was going with the other men to 
the cliffs of Rongkob, she thought that this was a good plan. 
But when he told her about the sacrifice he would have to take 
along, she began to cry and sob, "Oh, but we have nothing in 
the house except two batoks of rice and four ears of grain!" 

"Divide the grain with the children," Pak Sidin ordered, 
"and prepare the two batoks of rice for the queen. Color part 
of it red and the rest yellow, so that the eyes of the mighty 
queen will be enchanted with the beautiful colors." 

At first Munah objected, saying that the children were 
always hungry and that the grain was not enough to still their 

The Magic Oysters 129 

hunger. "And besides, what will you eat?" she asked her hus- 

"I shall fast," Pat Sidin answered, "until after the sacrifice 
is set down on the offering-place. After that my friends will 
surely lend me something so that I can buy some food at the 

On the day that Pak Sidin was to go with the other men, 
Munah was busy before sunrise preparing the beautifully col- 
ored rice and putting it in Pak Sidin 's best headcloth. 

"I put it in your best headcloth/' she said. "If one offers a 
sacrifice, everything should be clean and neat/ 7 

Faint and exhausted from his fasting, Pak Sidin started 
out with his friends. Curiously he looked now and again at the 
beautifully colored red and yellow rice that was partly visible 
through a fold in the headcloth. But he did not eat a single 
grain. He thought how overjoyed the queen would be when 
she saw the brightly colored rice placed with the other offer- 
ings of food on the white mat in the palm forest. 

Pak Moor, one of the other men, however, behaved in an 
entirely different manner. As a sacrifice he carried beautiful 
white rice and chicken and fish and all kinds of other good 
things. And when no one was looking, he stole first a bit of 
this and then a bit of that, until by the time he reached the 
place of sacrifice he had only some chicken bones and some 
banana skins left. 

Pak Sidin's offering already lay on the white mat when Pak 
Moor came up, puffing and blowing and saying that he was 
late because he had lost his offering along the way. 

But when all the men went to eat at the warongs, and only 
Pak Moor ate nothing, they began to doubt the truth of his 
story, and they whispered to one another that the queen was 
going to be very angry, that something dreadful was going to 


happen! As they said this, they all looked at Pak Sidin, the 
newcomer. Even the overseer looked at him and took care to 
be near him when they came to the ladders. 

The weather was fine when the men began the dangerous 
descent o the cliffs. Pak Sidin went down between the over- 
seer and one of the best men. "Don't look down/' the overseer 
warned him. "Look only at your ladder, and be sure to hold 
fast to it" And when they reached the surf and took hold of 
the ropes to come to the caves, the overseer told him, "You 
stay here in this first cave, Pak Sidin, and look around a while; 
perhaps it will be easy after that to find the nests/' 

Pak Sidin did so. He looked around the cave, first along 
the walls, from top to bottom, and then he saw a number of 
oysters lying on a big, flat stone. He thought that it would 
be nice to take some of them to his wife, because she was so 
fond of oysters and must be very hungry by this time. "She 
will have divided the grain among the children, and gone with- 
out anything to eat herself/' he said. "So I will take some of 
these oysters to her." 

"Yes, Pak Sidin, take some of the oysters for her/' a voice 
cried to him from the sea. "But don't let any mortal see them. 
Put them under your waistband and in your headcloth, for 
these oysters are meant only for you. They are your reward for 
the sacrifice/' 

Suddenly it became very quiet in the cave, and in the deep 
silence Pak Sidin gathered as many oysters as he could stuff 
beneath his waistband and in his headcloth. A little later the 
overseer came back, and with his coming the rest of the oysters 
that were clinging to the rock swiftly disappeared. 

The overseer showed Pak Sidin how he should pluck the 
nests from the rocks and how he should proceed after that. 

Pak Moor was in another cave. He felt very tired and sleepy 

after gulping down the food which had been meant for Ratu 
Loro Kidul, and so, instead of working, he sat down on one of 
the stones in the cave and soon fell asleep. 

And while her husband was sleeping, Pak Moor's wife was 
standing on the shore and crying to the Queen of the South 
Sea ? "Great, mighty queen, please give us a fortune as great 
as my husband's offering was great!" 

And on the other side of the shore Munah, Pak Sidin's wife, 
was sitting in front of her little hut, after having given the last 
of the grain to her children, and crying, "Great, mighty Ratu 
Loro Kidul, please let me see my husband again! Please bring 
him back safely to me and the children!" 

Pak Moor slept on and on. He did not know that the day 
was growing darker, that the sky was becoming grey. He did 
not hear how the thunder rolled and the storm howled inces- 
santly; he did not hear how the waves dashed in fury against 
the rocks. He did not see the lightning flashes that turned the 
cave into a place of blue flame. Not until an enormous 
wave broke over him did Pak Moor awake from his deep slum- 


ber. Then he sprang up and tried to grasp the rope that would 
bring him to the ladders again. But he could not catch hold 
of it before another great wave dashed against him and threw 
him back, and he heard a voice that rang like the swish of 
the sea crying to him, "You miserable glutton! Why did you 
eat the offering that was meant for me? Tell me, why did you 
do it?" 

"I was hungry/' Pak Moor cried in terror. 

"Hungry hungry " the voice echoed, and he heard a 
mocking laugh. 

Now for the first time Pak Moor realized that it was Ratu 
Loro Kidul who was speaking to him. "Oh, forgive me, for- 
give me, mighty queen! 7 ' he begged. 

"I never forgive him who eats the offering that was meant 
for me/" the voice spoke. 'Instead I take him with me to my 
undersea caves. Come, follow me there. My slaves are waiting 
for you. They have their many arms outstretched to catch you. 
They will embrace you and . . ." 

"Have pity, oh mighty queen, have pity!" sobbed Pak Moor. 
"I have a wife and many children, and they will all die of 
hunger if I do not return to them." 

"What he says is true, O great queen/' another voice said 
suddenly. It was one of the little sea sprites that spoke. 

"But he must be punished," Ratu Loro Kidul insisted. 

"So he must/' the little sea sprite said. "But do not give 
him to the octopi. Give ear to the prayer that Pak Moor's wife 
has made to you. That would be the most serious punishment 
of all for this glutton." 

"What did his wife ask of me?" 

"She begged that you should give her a fortune as great as 
her offering was great; the offering that her husband set down 
for you on the place of sacrifice/' 

The Magic Oysters 133 

"Well, then, we shall listen to her prayer/' the queen said. 
And to Pak Moor, "You may go back to your wife and chil- 
dren. And I shall answer the prayer of your wife. Here, grasp 
your rope and climb up!" 

Pak Moor, overjoyed because he believed that the queen 
felt kindly toward him, leaped up the rope to the ladders, 
climbed to the top of the cliff and stood once again on the 
rocky wall. Then, muttering to himself about the great for- 
tune that would come to him and to his family because Ratu 
Loro Kidul had listened to his wife's prayer, he ran toward his 
home. "Of course Gariah, my wife, prayed for something fine/' 
he thought. "Gariah surely must have prayed for great wealth." 

As he was hurrying homeward he saw his father-in-law run- 
ning toward him, crying as he ran. "Why are you crying?" he 
asked the old man. "Are you crying for me? Then dry your 
tears, because Ratu Loro Kidul has given us a great fortune! 
She has answered Gariah's prayer. . . ." 

"Then Gariah must have prayed for misfortune!" the old 
man sobbed. "Your house was ruined by the lightning, and 
your coconut trees are all burned. And the storm swept 
your goats and your chickens into the river and they all 
drowned. . . ." 

Pak Moor could not believe that this was true. He left the 
old man standing in the road and ran on toward the village. 
But his house was no longer there, and the coconut trees in 
his garden were all charred. And near one of the bare, black- 
ened tree trunks sat his wife, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. The children, who were standing around her, were cry- 
ing too, because they were very hungry. 

When Gariah saw her husband coming, she began to weep 
even harder. Pak Moor asked her, "Wife, what was it that 
you asked in your prayer to the queen? Why did you pray for 


misfortune? Why didn't you ask for riches and good luck?" 
And his wife answered, sobbing, "I did ask for riches and good 
luck! I asked for riches as great as your offering was great . . ." 

Pak Moor had nothing to say. He dared not tell his wife 
that the offering he had laid on the white mat was no offering 
at allonly a few gnawed-off chicken bones and a few banana 
skins. And from that day misfortune followed Pak Moor. 

Pak Sidin, however, was rewarded by Ratu Loro Kidul. For 
when he returned to his wife and children, who were sitting 
sorrowful and hungry in the tumble-down hut, and gave them 
the oysters that he had brought from the cave, he found that 
in every oyster lay a large, perfect pearl! And with the money 
that the beautiful white pearls brought, Pak Sidin was able 
to buy a pair of buffaloes to work his rice field, and after that 
there was always enough rice to feed his family. 

But Gariah, Pak Moor's wife, could never understand why, 
when she had prepared such a big offering for Ratu Loro Kidul 
and had prayed for a fortune as great as the offering was great, 
she should now be so poor. She could not understand why 
Pak Sidin, whose offering had been only two batoks of rice, 
should suddenly be so rich that he could build a new house 
and two large rice-barns and buy a pair of buffaloes; or why 
his harvest was so abundant that the barns were filled to burst- 
ing with fine, full ears of rice! 


IN WESTERN SUMATRA, the houses have roofs that curve up- 
ward at the ends to make them look like buffalo horns. The 
roofs have been built this way for many centuries, and if you 
ask why, the people will tell you this story: 

In ancient times there was a mighty rajah of Java who was 
so powerful that he had conquered all the islands of the 
Indies. No one could withstand him. There was only a small 
part of Sumatra the western part which had not yet come 
under his rule, and he sent his ambassadors there with a mes- 
sage: the people of that land must surrender or be killed. 

The men met to discuss the rajah's edict. "If we fight, we 
cannot win/' they decided, after a long time. "The rajah is 
too strong and has too many men/' 

"But if we do not fight," some of them said, "we will be 
taken prisoner. Our women will be slaves. Our families will be 
separated. Our houses will be burned. Our fields will be ruined. 
Is it not better to fight?" 

"But if we fight, many of us will be killed, and our women 
will still be slaves and our fields will be ruined and our houses 
burned," the others said. 

"Then what is to be done?" they asked of each other. 


One of the oldest men, a wise one, said at last, "When we 
are weak in arms and men, we must be strong in heart and 
mind. Let us think/' 

So the men of all the villages in western Sumatra met to 
think. What could they do to save themselves and their land 
and their families? How could they outwit the rajah who was 
determined to conquer them, as he had conquered the peoples 
of all the other islands? 

At last the old man spoke. "It has come to me/' he said, 
"how we may save ourselves." 

"Let us hear!" the villagers cried, though they had small 

"Let us send word to the rajah that if we fight his army it 
will mean great loss of life to all of us to his armies and to 
ours. Instead we propose to send a karbau into the field against 
any karbau that the rajah of Java may select. If our buffalo 
wins, we shall be free forevermore. If his buffalo wins, then 
we shall be his prisoners and his slaves." 

"But where can we find a buffalo that will surely win?" a 
young man demanded. "For if our buffalo does not win, then 
it will as bad as if we had fought and lost." 

"We must use our wits," the old man said. 

The people grumbled that it was a wild scheme, that there 
was no assurance that the old man's plan would work or that 
the rajah would even accept the challenge. 

"Have you a better idea?" the old man asked. 

They mumbled that they could think of nothing else. 

"Well, then?" said the old man. 

So the people of all the villages chose a messenger to go to 
Java and tell the powerful rajah of their plan. "Is it not bet- 
ter," the emissary said, "that one buffalo dies in battle than 
many of our men and yours?" 

The rajah thought it over. "It is true/* he said. "I am tired 
of battles, yet I wish to add all of western Sumatra to my 
kingdom. So I will send the biggest and strongest buffalo in 
all my islands to fight against any buffalo you may choose. And 
my buffalo will win and your people shall be my slaves. For 
where can you find a buffalo to stand up against one I have 
chosen, when I have all the islands of the Indies in which to 
find him, and you have only the puny lands of western Su- 

When the messenger returned, there was gladness among 
the people, because now at least there was a chance to escape 
the war. 

The rajah meanwhile sent his hunters throughout his king- 
dom to find the fiercest buffalo they could discover and to 
bring it back to him. And when they returned with their prize, 
the rajah smiled to himself. Surely no buffalo in the world 


could be bigger or fiercer or stronger than the animal that 
stood before him, eyes blazing, head crowned with long, 
curved horns. 

The Sumatrans found their buffalo, too. They took a young 
bull calf from its mother and put it in a pen, away from her, 
while they fitted sharp iron points to its little horns. The calf 
was hungry and cried, but they did not feed it or let it go 
near its mother so that it could drink her milk. They kept it 
penned up for three days, until the little buffalo was desperate 
with hunger. 

The rajah of Java came to western Sumatra, with his retinue 
and his fighters and his buffalo. "Bring on your buffalo/' he 
cried imperiously, "and let us get this over!" 

His keepers released the fierce buffalo from his cage at one 
end of the field, and the creature stood with lowered head, 
seeming to breathe fire through his nostrils. Everyone watched 
as the villagers let the hungry little buffalo out of his pen. 

The rajah and his courtiers laughed aloud at this foolish 
business. "It will be a matter of seconds," the rajah sneered. 
"Why did I come all the way from Java to see such a silly 
spectacle? The people of western Sumatra are even more 
stupid than I believed." 

The little buffalo calf stood on its wobbly legs at one end 
of the field. At the other end, it saw another buffalo, big and 
strong. From the distance, it looked like its mother. 

On its weak little legs, the calf began to run across the field. 
The big buffalo stood waiting for one of his own size to come 
and fight him. 

The little buffalo ran up to to the creature it thought was 
its mother, and lifted its hungry mouth to find milk. 

The sharp points the Sumatrans had put on its horns ripped 

The Battle of the Buffaloes 139 

open the big buffalo's belly, and he let out a cry of pain and 
fell downdead. 

The villagers shouted with joy. The rajah stood up and shook 
his fist toward the sky. "I have been fooled," he roared in an- 
ger. But he had promised . . . and so he took his warriors 
and his courtiers and his big buffalo back to Java, and never 
bothered the people of western Sumatra again. 

The villagers removed the iron points from the little buf- 
falo's horns, decked it with garlands of flowers, and led it 
back to its mother so it could slake its thirst. 

And from that day to this the people of western Sumatra 
have built their roofs to resemble the long, curved horns of 
the karbau, and they call their land Minangkabau the victory 
of the buffalo. 


IN ONE of the many villages that, ages ago, lay at the foot of 
the Smeru, India's holy mountain, there lived a Hindu who 
was a pariaha member of one of the lower castes. He was 
ridiculed by all who knew him because he had told them that 
he had had a dream in which Brahma himself had said, 'Tola- 
man, someday you shall perform a miracle/' 

"You, a pariah, you have been chosen to perform a mira- 
cle?" they taunted. 

Polaman did not understand it himself. He was so poor 
that he could barely buy enough food to keep himself alive. 
How could he ever perform a miracle? With what? But he 
said stoutly, '"That is what Brahma told me in my dream." 

On a certain day, after he had been going about the town 
of Singosari begging, he sat down on the steps of the temple, 
with the other beggars, to count his pennies. He was tired and 
hot and discouraged. "Nine pennies!" he said sadly to him- 
self. "Nine pennies! Not even enough to buy some rice or 
grain." The words of the dream came to him, and he knew 
that the others were right to ridicule him. "How shall I, who 
am so poor, ever perform a miracle?" 

He got up from the temple steps and walked toward the 


The Sacred Fish of Polaman 141 

market, where people were milling about, to buy food from 
the little stands. But when he asked for nine pennies' worth 
of rice or grain, everyone laughed at him and told him to 
move along. 

Hungry and tired, he walked to the edge of the woods that 
surrounded the town. Under a palm tree sat a woman with 
head bowed. She was weeping. Polaman thought, "She must 
be a pariah like myself. She's weeping because people have 
been abusing her and scoffing at her, as they do at me/ 7 He 
went up to her and said gently, "Why do you weep, my sister?" 

The woman raised her eyes. "I am not your sister/' she said 
haughtily. "I belong to the Brahman caste. My brother, one 
of the priests, brought me these fish from one of the villages 
in the kingdom of Surabaya. . . ." 

She opened a little basket made of woven palm fibers and 
showed Polaman a number of tiny silver fish which, as soon 
as the basket was opened, leaped out and slithered over the 

Polaman who had never seen live fish, sprang back in fear. 
"Don't touch them!" he shouted to the woman. "Don't touch 
them! They're bewitched." She was trying, without much suc- 
cess, to catch the little fish and and return them to the basket. 

"Please don't touch them!" Polaman begged. "Whoever 
saw fish that sprang about like grasshoppers?" 

'1 know, ... I didn't dare touch them at first myself," 
the woman said. "But my brother said that the fish he saw in 
the village by the sea all leap about like that. He said that is 
because they were caught alive in the water, and they can 
live only in water. But when I put them in good hot water, 
they wouldn't stay in it! They sprang out, throwing the hot 
water over my feet so that I shrieked with pain. And now what 
am I going to do with them?" she asked. "I certainly don't 


want the creatures. Would you perhaps buy them from me?' 7 

Polaman wanted very much to have them. He thought the 
little silver fish were beautiful, and, he thought, they ought 
to be very tasty. But he had only nine pennies. "I'd like to 
buy them/' he told the woman, "but I am poor; I have only 
nine pennies/' 

The woman was secretly afraid of the little fish that were 
leaping about in the basket, but of course she would not say 
so to Polaman. 'Take them/' she said. 'Take them, basket 
and all. But go at once, because my brother might come along 
and see that I had sold these lovely little fish to a pariah/' 

Polaman did not let himself be bothered by her words. As 
a pariah, he was used to such words. So he paid her his nine 
pennies, took the basket, and put it on his head. 

He said to himself, as he walked toward the woods, "I'll 
build a fire, and fry the fish. With some fruit that I may find 
in the woods they'll make a meal fit for the gods." 

"They'll not become a meal for the gods," a tiny, thin voice 
said, almost in his left ear. 

Polaman looked around. There wasn't a soul in sight. He 
thought, "I could have sworn that I heard something. Maybe 
it was a bat, hanging on one of the branches and squeak- 
ing " 

He was desperately hungry and could scarcely wait to build 
a fire and fry his fish. When he found a small open spot, he 
gathered some wood and was just laying a fire when he saw 
a bull coming toward him, head lowered, at full speed. "He'll 
kill me!" Polaman thought in fright. "He'll kill me. I have 

"Quick! Throw the bull two of your little fish, and nothing 
shall harm you!" a voice said in his ear the same thin, fine 
voice that he thought he had heard just a while before. 

The Sacred Fish of Polaman 143 

Without thinking, Polaman grabbed two of the fish out of 
the basket and threw them toward the bull. And, to his amaze- 
ment, as soon as the bull saw the fish, he stopped suddenly, 
turned around, and ran with equal speed in the opposite 

Just the same, Polaman wasn't sure that the bull might 
not return. He decided not to wait to build a fire in this 
particular place. He would go farther into the woods. 

As he rounded a curve in the forest path he saw, half-hidden 
behind a veil of waving tree moss, a woman who, he knew at 
once, belonged to the highest caste. She crouched on the 
earth, her head in her hands, and her shoulders shook with 
her weeping. 

He was a pariah and dared not go near her. He paused, but 
her weeping did not stop. At last he could not stand it any 
longer, and he asked humbly, "Tell me, O daughter of 
Brahma, why you are so sad?" 

The woman had not heard him approach and now she 
looked up with large, frightened eyes. "Oh, help me ... help 
me!" she cried breathlessly, as if she had been running. 
"Brahma be praised! He must have sent you to me. ... At 
first I thought you were someone who would take me back 
... to the house I fled from . . . last night. For you see 
. . . my husband . . . died and I was to be burnt on his 
pyre." She shivered, her eyes beseeching him. 

"I don't want to die! Before they came to bind my feet and 
crown me with flowers I ran away ... I ran and ran" Sud- 
denly she leaped up. "Listen! They are coming! Don't you 
hear them coming through the woods, singing?" 

Yes, Polaman heard them, too. The sound grew louder as 
they listened. The woman's face was full of fear. Oh, if only 
he could rescue her! 


It was almost as if someone nearby had read his thoughts, 
for again the little voice whispered in his ear, "Throw two 
of the fish behind youhurry, hurry and you will be saved!" 

Polaman thought, "I'll try it again. The fish saved me before 
when the bull rushed at me." 

He took two of the little fish out of the basket and threw 
them onto the ground. Almost at once two huge tigers leaped 
out of the underbrush, snatched the fish and ate them in one 
gulp, and began to growl fiercely in their throats. When the 
Brahmans appeared on the path, the tigers sprang toward 
them, growling and snarling so loudly that the men turned 
and fled, shrieking in fear. The tigers ran after them. 

"Now you are saved!" Polaman said, sighing with relief. 
"Now you can return to the house of your elders." 

"My elders," the woman said sadly, "would only return me 
to the house of my husband from which I fled last night. They 
find it a great honor that a daughter of theirs was married to 
a man of such high rank that she must be burned on his 
pyre. . . . Oh, take me with you!" she begged. "Wherever 
you go I will follow you!" 

"But I am a pariah, an outcast," Polaman told her, 
touched that she should want to go with him. "Don't you 
know, noble lady, that it would be called a misdeed if we 
should go our way together?" 

"I know that," the woman said. "I will become a pariah 
too, for the rest of my life. Only let me go with you as your 
sister; or, if you don't want that, let me be your wife." 

Polaman, the stepchild of the world, knelt on the ground 
and kissed the feet of the Brahman lady. He said humbly, 
"Where I go, there shall you go also, my wife." And they rose 
together and went farther into the woods, walking side by side 

until Polaman, who had not eaten all day, was faint with 

"Let us rest here a while/' he said, "and I will fry our fish." 

His wife began to hunt for wood and flint. She came back 
discouraged. "Here is wood/' she said, laying down a bundle 
of sticks, "but I cannot find any flint/ 7 

"Never mind/' he comforted her. "Well just eat the fish 
raw/' He started to open the little basket, but stopped when 
he heard the same soft, high voice whispering, "Better save 
your fish till you have need of them. Look around you!" 

Polaman looked around him, and saw a big palm tree, full 
of ripe coconuts. High in the tree sat two monkeys. The 
monkeys saw Polaman and his wife and were exceedingly 


angry. In their anger they tore off the coconuts and threw 
them down, one after the other, till Polaman and his wife 
had more than enough with which to still their hunger and 
their thirst. 

Polaman wanted to find his way out of the woods, but his 
wife cried, "Oh 7 Polaman, let us go on! If we leave the woods, 
people will see me, and tomorrow they will build a pyre, just 
for me, and burn me." 

"But I must find the way out of the woods!" Polaman said. 
"See, the sun is already going down, and my village lies so 
far from here. We shall be lost. And what then? Well starve. 
Or the tigers will find us and eat us/ 7 

"Maybe the tigers will have more pity on me than my 
friends and my elders," his wife said sadly. "Maybe they will 
spare us." 

They began to walk on, taking some of the coconuts with 
them. They walked until night fell and they could not see one 
foot in front of the other. "We shall have to spend the night 
here," Polaman said. "At least we have our coconuts and our 
fish. We won't have to go hungry." 

They had just sat down and begun to open a coconut when 
suddenly, very near them, they heard a most frightful noise. 
"Oh, it's the tigers!" the woman cried, crazed with fear. 
"What can we do? What can we do?" 

"Climb a tree," Polaman answered swiftly. "And wait for 
the dawn." 

They felt along the tree trunks. It was so dark that they 
could see nothing. But they could tell that there were only 
young trees here, that would break under their weight. And 
the growling of the tigers came closer and closer! 

They clasped each other's hands and, in desperation, waited 
for the tigers to pounce on them and kill them. Again the 

The Sacred Fish of Polaman 147 

thin, light voice came clearly to them: "There are four tigers. 
Throw each one of them a fish, and they can do you no harm." 

In the darkness Polaman and his wife could already see the 
glittering eyes of the tigers. He fumbled at the basket, got it 
open, and threw four of the fish into the night. 

Polaman and his wife stood rooted to the ground with fear. 
What would happen? They could not see the tigers, but all 
at once they knew that the beasts had found the fish and eaten 
them. And a moment later, the sound of their snarling and 
growling grew more distant . . . and still farther away . . . 
and they realized that the tigers had gone in the direction of 
Singosari, away from them! 

Polaman's wife cried, in a trembling voice, "Polaman, you 
are no ordinary man! You are no pariah! You are a magician 
one of Brahma's chosen! I will never be afraid again. No, 
not even if a thousand tigers come after us!" 

Her husband was not so easy in his mind. He knew very well 
that he was no magician, and, moreover, he had noticed that 
there were only two little fish left in the basket. He gave a deep 

"What do I have now for my nine pennies?" he thought to 
himself. "And what will happen, if more tigers come and I 
have to throw them the last of my fish?" 

"If you have rested enough/ 7 he said to his wife, "let's go 
deeper into the woods. One never knows; there might be more 
tigers hereabouts." 

"Very well," his wife said, 'let's grope our way along. I'll 
not be afraid when I am with you." 

Polaman walked thoughtfully, trying to think what he 
should do. He noticed, by the sound of her voice, that his 
beautiful wife was thoughtful, too. In spite of what she had 
said, she must be worried and still fearful. They went farther 


and farther into the forest, not knowing where they were 
going or which path to follow, fumbling and stumbling 
through the darkness. The path grew harder to follow and 
they found themselves hemmed in by tall, sharp plants with 
long thorns. The thorns pricked their bodies and cut their feet 
and hands. When they tried to push them away, the thorns 
caught in their hair and held them fast. 

While they tried to free themselves, Polaman suddenly 
cried, "Look, wife, look! What do you see?" 

"What should I see?" she answered, thinking that he had 
glimpsed another tiger or some other beast of prey. 

"There! Look there, over to the right!" he cried, in joy. 
"See, it's glimmering through the tree trunks." 

His wife did not understand him. "I don't see anything," 
she complained. "Nothing but a strip of light. Perhaps it's the 
beginning of day" 

"I think it's the edge of the forest," Polaman rejoiced. "If it 
is, and if we can reach it, our troubles are over." 

The strip of light grew broader. Their fear and weariness 
forgotten, they walked faster and faster. But when they reached 
it, they saw that it was not a strip of light. It was a little pond. 
The pond had been formed by a tiny stream of water that fell 
over a rock. In the grey light of dawn Polaman and his wife 
saw, too, that a colony of monkeys was sitting in the crotches 
of the vine-hung trees. Old and young monkeys shrieked at 
them. It was as if they were crying, "What are you doing in 
our territory?" They made so much noise that Polaman 
thought of giving them the last of his fish. 

Just then his wife called anxiously, "Oh, Polaman, take this 
dreadful bat off my head! Oh, oh, he's grabbing my hair!" 

"I can't!" Polaman shouted back. "There's one on my own 

The Sacred Fish of Polaman 149 

"You must help me you must!" Her voice rose in terror. 

"Believe me, I can't do it!" Polaman was beside himself. 
"There's another one on my shoulder!" 

"Yes, you can!" his wife protested angrily now. "You're a 
magician. Do something! Fm terrified of the creatures!" 

Polaman, trying hard to rid himself of his own bats, sud- 
denly heard the little voice: "Put one fish on top of your 
wife's head, and one on your own . . . and see what hap- 

Polaman was scarcely able to get his hands free of the bats' 
great claws and the widespread wings encircling him, but at 
last he managed it, ripped open the basket, and reached for 
the remaining fish. He rushed blindly toward his wife and put 
a fish on her head, and then one on his own head. Then he 
tossed the empty basket on the ground. 

And then the miracle happened! As soon as the bats saw 
the fish, they flew with them to the pond and threw them into 
it. And immediately the lid of the basket opened, of itself, 
and out of it flowed crystal-clear water in a broad stream. 
The little pond became a small lake. The water continued to 
flow out of the basket and the little lake became a big lake. 
The deep water was so clear that Polaman could see the two 
fish at the bottom. And as he looked one of the fish opened 
its tiny mouth and said, in the same thin, high voice that 
Polaman had heard so many times: 

"Polaman, we are the sacred fish which Brahma sent to in- 
habit this lake and to stock it with our descendants. And be- 
cause you brought us here, the lake is to be called by your 
name the Lake of Polaman. You are not to go back to your 
village at the foot of Smeru. You are to stay in this neighbor- 
hood and found a village here which, even as the lake, shall 
bear your name. Be sure to tell everyone who comes here to 


live or to visit that we are sacred fish, and that we must never 
be caught, or killed, or eaten. That is Brahma's will, and he 
will punish anyone who does us harm, as he will reward any- 
one who is good to us/' 

Polaman could not believe his ears. "It is a great honor/' he 
said humbly, when he could find his voice. For he was remem- 
bering his dream and how people had scoffed at him. Yet it 
had come to pass he had performed a miracle! 

To this day the lake is known by his name, and the village, 
too. But never since the day the Lake of Polaman was formed 
have the fish spoken again. 


ONCE UPON A TIME ? long, long ago, three orphaned sisters lived 
together in a small hut. They were very poor. To earn a little 
money, they helped neighboring fanners get their fields ready 
for planting, and helped them again at harvest time. 

It was while the two older sisters were garnering grain in a 
harvest field that they came upon a little bird cowering under 
some rice stalks. He did not flit away as they approached, and 
he looked at them so piteously that they picked him up and 
took him home with them. They found that he was not in- 
jured., but he did not seem to want to fly away. 

So they plaited a little cage of rattan for him, and the bird 
flew into the cage and was happy. Now the girls hated to leave 
their hut in the morning, and they could hardly wait to get 
home in the evening, for the bird was always there waiting 
for them, cocking his head to one side and chirping a greeting. 
They called him Kekeko, because that was what he said: 
Kekeko, kekeko. 

The girls had so little to eat that they were always hungry; 
nevertheless they always managed to save a few grains of rice 
or bits of fruit for Kekeko. 

They had had the bird only a short time when one day he 


astonished them by speaking. "Set me in a basket/' he chirped, 
"and I will lay." 

At first they could not believe that he had really said the 

"Did you hear him?" the oldest sister asked the others. 

"He said, 'Set me in a basket and I will lay/ " the second 
sister said. 

And the third, and youngest, sister piped up, "I heard him, 
too. That's just what he said. But do you suppose he really 
means it?" 

"Of course I mean it/' Kekeko said impatiently. "Set me in 
a basket and I will lay." 

So finally they did as he demanded; but, though they 
watched for hours, nothing happened. They ate their meager 
supper and put a few scraps in Kekeko's basket. At last they 
were so tired that they stretched out on their mats and went 
to sleep. 

Next morning they ran to the basket, and lo it was full of 
cooked rice and fish! 

The girls had never had so much to eat. They ate until they 
could eat no more, and still there was plenty left. Kekeko 
looked happy, but he said nothing until late in the afternoon. 
Then he ordered, "Set me in the basket and I will lay." 

This time they hurried to do his bidding and, sure enough, 
next morning the basket was overflowing with cooked rice and 
fish. Now the sisters had more than enough; they could not 
find room for all the food. 

Day after day this happened, until at last the three sisters 
implored the bird to give them uncooked rice instead. Then 
they could store it, and not have to throw good food away. 
Kekeko nodded, and next morning the basket contained only 
uncooked rice but a great mound of it! 

The Wonder-Tree 153 

They put the rice in baskets and hampers. They cooked all 
they needed, and there was still rice left over. Visitors who 
came to the little hut marveled that the three girls, who had 
always been so poor, now had a wealth of riceenough and to 

News got about the village, and spread to the next village 
where their uncle lived. He had never bothered with them 
since their parents had died, and had not offered to help them 
in any way. But when he heard of their great store of rice, he 
came in a hurry, rubbing his hands and beaming at them. 

"I have always wanted to visit you," he said. "And I ain 
sorry it has been such a long time since Fve inquired about 
your health. But I've been busy. It takes all my time to work 
my poor fields and to get enough food for my family/' He 
looked around the hut and said, in pretended surprise, "How 
does it happen, my dear nieces, that you have such a wealth 
of rice? You have come into a fortune? Your neighbors supply 
you, perhaps? Surely you did not earn all this yourselves/' 

The youngest sister said eagerly, "Oh, no, uncle. You see, 
we never had enough to eat, but now our bird, Kekeko, which 
my sisters caught, gives us all our rice/' 

"Now that is impossible!" their uncle exclaimed, eyeing the 
bird. It was hard for him to keep on smiling, for his heart was 
filled with envy. To think that these girls had all the rice they 
needed and more, while he had barely enough to feed his 

"Kekeko gives us rice every day/' the youngest child said. 

The uncle's eyes glittered with greed. "Then surely you 
could spare him for a few days for your old uncle/' he whined. 
"Just for a little while, till my baskets and hampers are full." 

Kekeko squawked suddenly, as if he did not want to go, and 
the older sisters looked at one another doubtfully. But their 


uncle kept pleading, "Just for a few days, my dear nieces! You 
would not deny this to your poor uncle?" 

And at last they let their uncle take the bird, but the oldest 
sister managed to whisper to Kekeko, "Do not give him good 
rice, Kekeko. He has not been kind to us, and we could have 
starved for all he cared." 

Kekeko nodded his bright head, and the uncle, after a short 
time, took the bird with him back to his village. 

The girls waited for their uncle to return Kekeko, but he 
did not come. They waited a week, and still their uncle did not 

Their store of rice was shrinking, but, more important than 
that, they missed Kekeko and wanted him back. They cleaned 
his cage and put aside some of their best rice and fish for the 
bird, and then set out to visit their uncle and fetch Kekeko. 

But when they got there, they could not see Kekeko any- 
where. Their uncle snarled at them, "He is not here." 

"Why? What have you done with him?" the sisters asked. 

"I ate him/' their uncle said angrily. 

"Oh, uncle, surely you did not eat our darling Kekeko! Why 
would you do such a thing?" 

"The -wretched bird did not give me any rice," the man 
shouted. "None at all! Day after day I ordered him to give me 
rice, but he would not. And so I killed him . . . and to make 
sure that he was gone, I ate him. The miserable creature!" 

When they heard that, the sisters fell to the ground, crying 
and moaning. "Now we shall never get our Kekeko back!" 
they wept. 

"If you want him back, find his bones," their uncle said 
cruelly. He laughed to see them searching over the ground for 
the bones of the little bird. 

They gathered up all the tiny bones they could find and 

wrapped them in a cloth. Sorrowfully, they walked back to 
their village, mourning because the bird was lost to them for- 
ever. When they reached their hut they put the bones in the 
little cage and, with tears running down their cheeks, buried 
it in the soft earth near the house. 
Soon, they thought, they would be poor again, for their rice 


and fish would not last long. Soon they must work the fields 
again and depend on their fanner neighbors for help. But, 
worst of all, they would miss the bright head and the chirping 
voice of their Kekeko. They fell asleep, crying, in the dark. 

Next morning, just as the sun was up, they rose to take a 
little offering of flowers to the place where Kekeko lay buried. 
And as they approached the spot they stopped in amazement, 
and their eyes grew round and their mouths fell open. For a 
wonderful tree had grown over the place where Kekeko was 
buried a tree with leaves of shimmering silk, with great blos- 
soms of shining earrings and jeweled pins, with marvelous 
fruits that tinkled with a beautiful sound. A tree on which, 
pluck as they would, there always remained leaves of shimmer- 
ing silk and blossoms of shining earrings and jeweled pins, and 
fruits that tinkled musically all day long. Their wonder-tree, 
the sisters called it. But they all knew it was really their darling 
Kekefco who was still helping them, even though they would 
never see him again. 


adat (ah-daht) custom 

alang-alang (ah-lahng-ah-lahng)-- a tall grass with long, sharp 


Allah (ah-lah) the Mohammedans' name for God 
Amboina (ahm-boy-nah) an island of Indonesia 
Baduwi (ba-doo-wee) the name of a tribe 
Bantam (bahn-tahm) -a province of Java 
Batak (bah-tahk) a region of Sumatra; also the name of the 

people who live there 
Batara Guru (bah-tah-rah goo-roo) one of the demigods; he 

played a part in creating the world 
batok (bah-tok) half a coconut shell 
Besi (beh-sih) an island between Java and Sumatra 
betel (bee-t'l)--a type of palm tree; the fruit, the betel nut, is 

ground, wrapped with lime in the leaves of the palm and 

chewed by East Indians 

Borneo (bohr-nee-oh) one of the largest islands of Indonesia 
Brahma (brah-mah) the chief god of the Hindu trinity (the 

others are Vishnu and Siva); Brahma is regarded as the 

creator of the universe 
Brahman (brah-man) a Hindu of the highest caste 


Bromo (broh-mo) a volcanic mountain in Java; also the name 

of the mountain giant 
buata (boo-ah-tah) a demon of the air 

Celebes (seh-leh-bes) a large island of the Indonesian group 

dewi (de-wih) goddess 

Dewi Sri (de-wih srih) the wife of Vishnu 

Durga (dur-gah) the goddess who once conquered the buffa- 

Dwars-in-den-weg one of the small islands between Java 
and Sumatra 

Dyak (dy-yak) one of the tribes (or a member of the tribe) 
of Borneo 

gamelan (gah-meh-lahn) an orchestra composed of xylo- 
phones, gongs, drums and cymbals 

guning ( goo-noong) mountain 

Hindu (hin-doo) one who belongs to the religious faith of 

ikan leleh (ih-kahn leh-leh) a long, dark grey fish, resembling 
an eel 

Indra (in-drah) chief god of the early Hindu religion; he 
wields thunderbolts, and overcomes enemies 

Islam (is-lahm) the religion and doctrine of Mohammedan- 
ism; it also refers to all Moslems and the countries they 

Java (jah-vah) one of the main islands of Indonesia 

kai (ky)-old or respected 

Kajangka (kah-jahng-kah) ruler of the moon 

Kama Jaja (kah-mah jah-jah) the protector of married people 

kanchil (kahn-tchil) the mouse-deer 

Karang (kah-rahng) the name of a mountain 

Karang-Bolong (kah-rahng boh-long) cliffs on the shores of 

karbau (kar-bah-oo) the water buffalo 

Glossary 1 59 

Kawitjaksana (kah-wit-jahk-sah-nah)-- a name meaning "her- 
mit full of wisdom" 

Kembang Manis (kem-bahng mah-nis) a name meaning 
"lovely flower" 

Kendang (ken-dahng) a mountain range 

Krakatau (kra-ka-tah-oo) an island volcano between Java 
and Sumatra 

kris (krees) the dagger used by Indonesians 

Lombok (lom-bohk) an island of Indonesia 

Lurah Dalam (loo-rah dah-lam) a favorite of the gods who, 
by day, ruled over the kingdom of Bantam 

Macassar (mah-kahs-sahr) a city on the island of Celebes 

Majapahit (mah-jah-pah-hit) a powerful Indonesian dynasty 
before the advent of Mohammedanism 

Mecca (mek-kah) -a city in Arabia; it is the birthplace of 
Mohammed, and therefore a holy city to Moslems 

Merbabu (mer-bah-boo) a mountain 

Minangkabau (mm-ahng-kah-bah-oo) the name by which 
western Sumatra was first known 

Mohammed (mo-hahm-med) the prophet and founder of 
the Mohammedan religion 

monsoon (mon-soon)a seasonal wind; also the rainy season 
(June to September) beginning with the onset of the south- 
west winds 

Moslem (mos-lem) followers of the religion of Mohammed 

nai ( ny ) housekeeper or wife 

paddy a wet or irrigated rice field; the word may also refer 
to rice in the husk, growing or gathered 

pariah (pa-ri-ah) a member of a low caste of southern India 
and Burma 

Perak (peh-rahk) a town in Indonesia 

Pulosari (poo-lo-sah-rih)-a mountain 

raden (rah-den) ruler 


rajah (rah-jah) a king or ruler 

raksasa (rahk-sah-sah)- a giant; also a temple watchman 

rattanany climbing palm whose long, tough stems are used 
in making wickerwork 

ratu (rah-too) queen 

Ratu Loro Kidul (rah-too loh-roh kih-dool) the Queen of the 
South Seas 

Rongko-b (rong-kob) a town in Java 

Sanagara (sah-nah-gah-rah) a powerful king who once con- 
quered a large part of Indonesia 

sawah (sah-wah)- a wet rice field 

Segara Anakan (seh-gah-rah ah-nah-kahn) the Children's Sea 

Segarawedi (seh-gah-rah-we-dih) a mountain 

Singosari (sing-oh-sah-rih) a town in Java 

sirih set the implements and vessels used for preparing betel 
nut, which is mixed with lime and chewed; the sets belong- 
ing to nobles or kings were often made of gold 

Smeru (smeh-roo) a volcanic mountain in Java 

Sumatra (soo-mah-trah)~-one of the largest islands of Indo- 

Sunda (soon-dah) the name of the straits between Java and 

Surabaya (soo-rah-by-yah) a city in Java 

tapa (tah-pah) a hermit or holy man 

Tengger (teng-ger)-a mountain range 

tuan (too-ahn) a term of respect equal to "master" 

Vishnu (vish-noo) the second member of the Hindu trinity; 
he is called the "preserver" 

waringen (wah-ring-en) the banyan tree 

warong (wah-rong) a portable stove on which food is cooked/' 
often along the roads 

waru wanggi (wah-roo wahng-gih) a tree; wriggi means "fra- 

7he Author 

After her graduation from the Hartridge School 
for Girls in Plainfield, New Jersey, Adele de Leeuw 
chose travel in place of college, and says that she has 
never regretted the choice. Her father was a Hol- 
lander, and the family lived in the Netherlands for 
months at a time. Out of this experience came one 
of her first books, The Flavor of Holland, which 
was cndursc' 1 ^ rlistrTk"*-- " l y :!.: ^irnegie Foun- 
dation for International Peace; it was illustrated 
with her own photographs. 

Miss de Leeuw has traveled in many countries. 
She spent six months in the Dutch East Indies, as 
Indonesia was then called, and there she heard 
many of the stories in this book. Others she has 
translated from the Dutch (which she reads and 
speaks) or adapted from books on Indonesian folk- 

Miss de Leeuw is the author of two volumes of 
verse and more than a score of books for young